COLONIAL    BALLADS.  SONNETS 

AND     OTHER     VERSE 


'7939 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  SONNETS 
AND   OTHER  VERSE 


MARGARET  J.  ^RESTON 

author  of  "  silverwood,"  "  beechenbrook,"  '*  old  song  and  new,' 
"cartoons,"  "for  love's  sake,"  etc. 


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BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

1887 


,     ,    ,   Copjilglit,  1&87„ 

By  MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge : 
Blectrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co 


To 

BIY  FRIEND, 
JEAN  INGELOW, 

FROM  WHOSE  BIRTH-PLACE  SAILED  THE  VESSELS 

THAT  BROUGHT  SOME  OF  THE  EARLIEST  ENGLISH  COLONISTS 

TO  THE   WESTERN  WORLD. 


jy!76629 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/colonialballadssOOpresrich 


What  wilt  thou  walk  abroad  in,  Muse  of  mine  f 
The  violet  jpeplos,  such  as  in  the  shades 
Of  Mitylene's  gardens,  Lesbian  maids 

(JEJrinna  and  the  rest)  spun  from  the  fins 

Milesian  wools?     Or  round  thee  wilt  thou  twine 
Egypt's  severer  linen,  till  it  lades 
Thy  brows  as  it  did  Miriam's  dusky  braids  ? 

Or  drape  thee  like  Egeria  at  her  shrine? 
Or,  as  thy  vestment,  choose  the  cloth-of-gold, 
Of  later  singers,  richer  dight  than  these, 

Which  thou  mayst  borrow,  an  unquestioned  loan, 
When  want  impels,  to  wrap  thee  from  the  cold  ? 
Nay,  Micse  of  mine  !  in  robe  of  unpatched  frieze, 

Go,  rather,  thou,  —  if  so  it  be  thine  own  ! 


CONTENTS. 


SONNETS. 

PAGB 

The  Mount  of  Vision 1 

*'SiT,  Jessica" 2 

In  the  Upfizi  Gallery 3 

Keats's  Greek  Urn 4 

Unbridled 5 

The  Unsearchable  Name     .        .        .        .        .        .        .6 

Hawthorne 7 

A  Bit  of  Autumn  Color 8 

At  St.  Oswald's 9 

Ultima  Thule 10 

Attar  of  Roses 11 

Circumstance 12 

Out  of  Nazareth 13 

Nature's  Comfortings 14 

In  Cripplegate  Church 15 

Comfort  for  the  King 16 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 17 

The  Sibyl's  Doubt 18 


Vlii  CONTENTS. 

Haydn's  Last  Quartet 19 

Prince  Deucalion 20 

Pro  Republica 21 

COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

The  Mystery  of  Cro-a-t1n 22 

Sir  Walter's  Honor 30 

The  Last  Meeting  of  Pocahontas  and  the  Great  Cap- 
tain          44 

The  First  Thanksgiving  Day 48 

The  Price  of  a  Little  Pilgrim 52 

The  First  Proclamation  of  Miles  Standish         .        .  56 

St.  Botolph's  Chimes 60 

The  Puritan  Maiden's  May-Day 63 

Lady  Yeardley's  Guest QQ 

The  Queen  of  Pamunkey 72 

DoRRis'  Spinning 77 

Fast-Day  Sport                   82 

Greenway  Court 85 

The  Boys'  Redoubt 90 

BALLAD  AND  OTHER  VERSE. 

The  Silent  Tryst 95 

The  Ballad  of  the  Bell-Tower 99 

The  Lake  Among  the  Hills 103 

The  Royal  Abbess 1^5 

The  Bishop's  Epitaph 108 

Maid  Cicely's  Steeple  Cap 114 


CONTENTS.  IX 

The  Wanderer's  Bell 117 

Before  Death 120 

A  November  Nocturne 122 

Autumn  Love 124 

The  Flemish  Bells 127 

Nunc  Dimittis 130 

The  Fairies'  Table-Cloth 133 

The  Kiss  of  Worship 135 

At  Last 138 

A  Belle  of  Pr-enestb 141 

The  Longshoreman's  View  of  It 144 

The  Wine-Vaults  of  Bergensteen         ....  146 

pritchard  the  engineer 150 

Compensation 152 

Arab  Wit 155 

Calling  the  Angels  in 158 

Persephone  160 

The  Kept  Promise 163 

A  Touch  of  Frost 166 

The  First  Te  Deum 168 

The  Christ-Crotch 171 

The  Begging  Cupid 175 

How  Hilda's  Prayer  was  Answered        ....  177 

Cambridge  Bells 183 

The  Roman  Boy's  Share  in  the  Triumph        .        .        .  185 

Same-Sickness  189 

Her  Wedding  Song 192 

The  Angel  Unaware 195 


X  CONTENTS. 

Nature's  Threnody 197 

Even-Song 199 

SONNETS. 

The  Poet's  Answer 201 

We  Two 202 

Hestia 203 

Art's  Limitations 204 

Flood-Tide 205 

Abnegation 206 

Over-Content 207 

In  The  Pantheon 208 

Mendelssohn's  Reward 209 

"  Philip,  My  King  " 210 

Moods. 

Morning    . 211 

Night 212 

Human  Providence 213 

Horizons 214 

The  Lesson  of  the  Leaf 215 

Wherefore  ? 216 

Medallion  Heads. 

Saskia 217 

VlTTORIA   COLONNA 218 

La  Fornarina  . 219 

lucrezia 220 

Frau  Agnes 221 

QuiNTiN  Matsys'  Bride       ...        .        .        .      222 


CONTENTS,  XI 

CHII.DHOOD  OF   THE  OLD  MASTERS. 

Leonardo's  Angel 223 

Giotto's  First  Picture 229 

Fra  Angelico's  Boyhood 232 

Behind  the  Arras 235 

The  Milan  Bird-Cages 239 

Little  Titian's  Palette 243 

Michael's  Mallet 246 

GuiDo's  Complaint 249 

Claude's  Journey 252 

The  Boy  Van  Dyck 256 


SONNETS. 


THE  MOUNT  OF  VISION. 

TO   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON,    ON   HIS   LAST   BIRTHDAY. 

O  PROPHET  !  standing  on  thy  Nebo  height, 
Wrapt  in  thy  rare,  unworldly  atmosphere, 
With  senses  purged,  with  aspect  large  and  clear, 

Thy  long-sought,  life's  Ideal  looms  in  sight : 

Here,  Jordan  at  thy  feet,  —  there,  Hermon  white  ; 
And  all  between,  the  realms  of  promised  cheer. 
Wine,  olives,  milk  and  honey,  now  appear 

Stretched  vast  before  thee  in  the  evening  light. 

What  seeth  the  seer,  as  from  the  Mount  of  Grod 

He  gazes  o'er  the  desert-travel,  back 
Past  Sphinx  and  Pyramids'  infinity  ? 

A  cloud-led,  vatic  pathway,  bravely  trod,  — 
A  Bethlehem  brightness  o'er  the  forward  track. 

That  gleams,  glows,  broadens,  to  the  "  Utmost  Sea  " ! 


SONNETS. 


'!:/''/':  i    I  r.^^^'^  JESSICA." 

As  there  she  stood,  that  sweet  Venetian  night, 
Her  pure  face  lifted  to  the  skies,  aswim 
With  stars  from  zenith  to  horizon's  rim, 

I  think  Lorenzo  scarcely  saw  the  light 

Asleep  upon  the  bank,  or  felt  how  bright 

The  patines  were.     She  filled  the  heavens  for  him  ; 
And  in  her  low  replies,  the  cherubim 

Seemed  softly  quiring  from  some  holy  height. 

And  when  he  drew  her  down  and  soothed  her  tears, 
Stirred  by  the  minstrelsy,  with  passionate  kiss, 

Whose  long,  sweet  iterations  left  her  lips 
Trembling,  as  roses  tremble  after  sips 

Of  eager  bees,  the  music  of  the  spheres 
Held  not  one  rhythmic  rapture  like  to  this  ! 


SONNETS. 


IN  THE  UFFIZI   GALLERY. 

"  This  bit  of  paper,  thumbed  and  dingy  gray  "  — 
The  cicerone  chattered  —  but  I  paid 
No  heed  to  him,  nor  even  my  footsteps  stayed, 
Until  he  droned,  in  his  perfunctory  way, 
(He  tells  the  story  twenty  times  a  day,)  — 
"  Is  one  of  Raphael's  crayon  studies  made 
For  DeUa  Sedia  "  — 

Instant  was  I  laid 
Spell-bound,  as  if  beneath  some  sovereign  sway ! 

I  touched  the  master's  sleeve,  I  stood  so  near ; 

Watched  his  held  breathing,  as  the  incipient  line 
Took  shape,  and  shadowed  the  supreme  design. 

Clear-drawn  within  his  soul,  and  seemed  to  hear  - 
I  saw  the  blot !  —  a  quick,  ecstatic  tear 

Drop,  as  the  pencil  fixed  his  thought  divine ! 


SONNETS. 


KEATS'S  GREEK  URN. 

When  the  young  poet  wrought  so  unaware 
From  purest  Parian,  washed  by  Grecian  seas, 
And  stained  to  amber  softness  by  the  breeze 

Of  Attic  shores,  his  Urn,  antiquely  fair,  — 

And  brimmed  it  at  the  sacred  fountain,  where 

The  draughts  he  drew  were  sweet  as  Castaly's,  — 
Had  he  foreseen  what  souls  would  there  appease 

Their  purer  thirsts,  he  had  not  known  despair  ! 

About  it  long  processions  move  and  wind, 
Held  by  its  grace,  —  a  chalice  choicely  fit 

For  truth's  and  beauty's  perfect  interfuse, 
Whose  effluence  the  exhaling  years  shall  find 

Unwasted :  for  the  poet's  name  is  writ 
(Firmer  than  marble)  in  Olympian  dews ! 


SONNETS. 


UNBRIDLED. 

It  might  have  been  so  much,  —  this  life  now  done,  - 
So  furrowed  with  accomplishment,  so  strong 
To  struggle  for  the  right,  oppose  the  wrong, 

And  be  the  first  at  every  goal ;  for  none 

Went  forth  less  weighted  than  this  favored  one, 
Whom  Nature,  in  her  bounty,  seemed  to  throng 
With  helps,  his  whole  unhindered  course  along. 

Yet  to  what  end,  now  that  the  race  is  run  ? 

The  will,  untamed  as  pampas-steed's,  had  known 
No  hard-set  purpose  —  yielded  to  no  rein. 

Obeyed  no  curb  —  shirked  labor's  lasso-coil, 
And  roving  masterless,  with  streaming  mane, 

Scorned,  in  its  lawless  liberty,  to  own 

Duty's  sharp  check,  and  wear  the  gear  of  toil. 


SONNETS. 


THE  UNSEARCHABLE  NAME. 

When  I  attempt  to  give  the  power  which  I  see  manifested  in  the  universe  an 
objective  form,  personal  or  otherwise,  it  slips  away  from  me,  declining  all  in- 
tellectual manipulation.  I  dare  not  use  the  pronoun  "  He  "  regarding  it ;  I  dare 
not  call  it  a  "  Mind ;  "  I  refuse  to  call  it  even  a  "  Cause."  —  Peof.  Tyndall. 

O  CALM  philosopher,  so  seeming  meek, 

Who  on  the  midnight  heavens  dost  gaze  with  awe, 
And  own  the  fathomless  force  behind  the  law, 

Confessing  that  thy  finitude  is  weak 

To  gauge  infinity,  when  thou  wouldst  seek, 
With  eyes  that  are  but  mortal  eyes,  to  draw 
Within  thy  vision  what  mortal  never  saw, 

Or  utter  what  no  human  lips  can  speak  :  — 

Thou  "  dare  not  call  it  '  He  '  ?  "  —  Then  dare  not  so, 
If  underneath  the  mystery,  thou  art  awed. 

We  talk  of  man  thus  :  ''  he  ''  who  treads  the  sod : 

Thou  wilt  not  name  it  "  Mind,"  or  "  Cause  "  ?    Too  low 

These  earth-words  comprehensible  !     Nay,  go 
Back  to  primordial  truth,  and  call  it  God ! 


SONNETS. 


HAWTHORNE. 

He  stood  apart  —  but  as  a  mountain  stands 

In  isolate  repose  above  the  plain, 

Robed  in  no  pride  of  aspect,  no  disdain. 
Though  clothed  with  power  to  steep  the  sunniest  lands 
In  mystic  shadow.     At  the  mood's  demands, 

Himself  he  clouded,  till  no  eye  could  gain 

The  vanished  peak,  no  more,  with  sense  astrain, 
Than  trace  a  footprint  on  the  surf-washed  sands. 

Yet  hidden  within  that  rare,  sequestered  height, 

Imperially  lonely,  what  a  world 
Of  splendor  lay  !  what  pathless  realms  untrod ! 

What  rush  and  wreck  of  passion  !     What  delight 
Of  woodland  sweets !  What  weird  winds,  phantom- whirled  I 

And  over  all,  the  immaculate  sky  of  God  ! 


SONNETS, 


A  BIT  OF  AUTUMN  COLOR. 

Centred  upon  a  sloping  crest,  I  gazed 
As  one  enchanted.     The  horizon's  ring 
Of  billowy  mountains,  flushed  with  sunsetting, 

Islanded  me  about,  and  held  me  mazed, 

With  beauty  saturate.     Never  color  blazed 
On  any  mortal  palette  that  could  fling 
Such  golden  glamour  over  everything 

As  flashed  from  autumn's  prism,  till  all  was  hazed 

With  opal,  amber,  sapphire,  amethyst. 

That  shinamered,  mingled,  dusked  to  steely  blue. 

Raptured  I  mused  :  Salvator  never  drew 

Its  faintest  semblance ;  Turner's  pencil  missed 

Such  culmination  :  yet  we  count  them  true 

Masters.     Behold  what  God's  one  touch  can  do  ! 


SONNETS. 


AT  ST.  OSWALD'S. 

Within  the  church  I  knelt,  where  many  a  year 
Wordsworth  had  worshipped,  while  his  musing  eye 
Wandered  o'er  mountain,  fell,  and  scaur,  and  sky, 

That  rimmed  the  silver  circle  of  Grasmere, 

Whose  crystal  held  an  under-world  as  clear 

As  that  which  girt  it  round ;  and  questioned  why 
The  place  was  sacred  for  his  lifted  sigh. 

More  than  the  humble  dalesman's  kneeling  near. 

Strange  spell  of  Genius  !  —  that  can  melt  the  soul 

To  reverence  tenderer  than  o'er  it  falls 
Beneath  the  marvellous  heavens  which  God  hath  made, 

And  sway  it  with  such  human-sweet  control 
That  holier  henceforth  seem  these  simple  walls, 

Because  within  them  once  a  poet  prayed ! 
Grasmere,  1884. 


10  SONNETS. 


ULTIMA  THULE. 


H.    W.    L. 


Wrap  the  broad  canvas  close  ;  furl  the  last  sail ; 
Let  go  the  anchor  ;  for  the  utmost  shore 
Is  reached  at  length,  from  which,  ah !  nevermore, 

Shall  the  brave  bark  ride  forth  to  meet  the  gale, 

Or  skim  the  calm  with  phosphorescent  trail. 
Or  guide  lost  mariners  amid  the  roar 
Of  hurricanes,  or  send  —  far  echoing  o'er 

Some  shipwrecked  craft  —  the  music  of  his  "  Hail ! " 

And  he  has  laid  his  travel-garb  aside ; 

And  forth  to  meet  him  come  the  mystic  band 
Whom  he  has  dreamed  of,  worshipped,  loved  so  long  - 

The  veiled  Immortals,  who,  with  holy  pride 
Of  exultation,  take  him  by  the  hand 

And  lead  him  to  the  inner  shrine  of  Song. 


SONNETS.  11 


ATTAR  OF  ROSES. 

Here  in  a  sandal-box,  with  Persian  lore 

Gilded  upon  the  slender  vial  (see ! 

Some  love-line  out  of  Hafiz  it  may  be), 
I  keep  imprisoned  the  delicious  store 
Of  a  whole  Cashmere  garden.     O'er  and  o'er, 

With  every  inhalation  come  to  me 

Light,  song,  breeze,  color,  —  all  the  witchery 
That  crowds  a  thousand  roses'  golden  core. 

Would  the  wide  field  be  better,  where  the  way 
Is  free  to  whoso  cares  to  pass  ?  where  none 

May  claim  an  overplus  ?  where  oft  the  sun 
Scorches,  and  clouds  beset  the  calmest  day  ? 

Thou  know'st,  who  hast  for  me,  through  yea  and  nay, 
Attared  my  thousand  roses  into  one ! 


12  SONNETS. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

"  You  may  be  what  you  will,"  the  sciolist 
Says  sagely,  sitting  in  the  master's  seat ; 
And  straightway  hastens  glibly  to  repeat 
Such  echoing  names,  that  all  dissent  is  whist 
To  hear  the  records  read,  wherein  consist 
The  hero-tales  of  ages  ;  while  defeat 
Yields  proof  to  him,  infaUible,  complete, 
That  through  weak  will  alone  success  is  missed. 

Yet  round  each  life  there  crowds  an  atmosphere 
Of  strong  environment  for  woe  or  weal. 

That  proves  to  one  a  joyous  fostering  power ; 
To  one  a  fateful  force,  subversive,  drear ; 

As  damps,  that  nurse  to  perfect  bloom  the  flower, 
Rust  to  corrosion  the  elastic  steel. 


SONNETS.  13 


OUT  OF  NAZARETH. 

Dear  proud  old  land,  —  Judaea  of  our  heart ! 

Our  prophets,  poets,  kings,  we  claim  of  thee, 

And  own  that  all  we  have  of  good  and  free, 
And  brave  and  beautiful,  is  but  a  part 
Of  England's  birthright-gift,  because  thou  art 

The  fount  of  our  ancestral  blood,  though  we 

Seem  only  an  outlying  Galilee 
To  thee,  —  the  assenting  nations'  mightiest  mart. 

Why  should  our  senses  not  be  keen  as  thine. 
Our  eye  as  quick  for  color ;  our  strong  breath 

For  poet's  song  ;  our  ear  for  music's  call ; 

Since  Nature's  newest  glories  round  us  shine  ? 

Wait  the  time's  fulness  :  out  of  Nazareth 
May  come  the  availing  prophet,  after  all ! 


14  SONNETS. 


NATURE'S  COMFORTINGS. 

I  CANNOT  bear  this  gloom  of  grief  (I  said) 
Within  shut  walls  :  beneath  the  open  sky 
So  pure  in  its  inviolate  calm,  so  high, 

I  will  go  forth,  and  lean  my  throbbing  head 

On  Nature's  all-compassionate  heart,  instead 
Of  human  props,  that  find  no  more  than  I 
An  answer  to  the  wild,  importunate  "  why  ?  ** 

That  moans  its  questioning  wail  above  my  dead. 

I  passed  without,  beseeching  Grief  to  stay ; 

The  sweet  blue  air  kissed  down  my  sense  of  pain ; 
The  strong,  perpetual  mountains  seemed  to  steep 

My  wounds  in  balm ;  the  breeze  brushed  tears  away ; 
The  sunshine  soothed :  and  when  I  turned  again 

Within  my  door,  lo  1  Grief  had  fallen  asleep  ! 


SONNETS.  16 


IN  CRIPPLEGATE  CHURCH.^ 

I  STAND  with  reverence  at  the  altar-rail, 

O'er  which  the  soft  rose-window  sheds  its  dyes, 
And,  looking  up,  behold  in  pictured  guise 

Its  choirs  of  singing  cherubs,  —  heaven's  All  hail ! 

Upon  each  lip,  and  on  each  brow  a  trail 
Of  golden  hair,  for  here  the  poet's  eyes 
Had  rested,  dreaming  dreams  of  Paradise, 

As  on  yon  seat  he  sat,  ere  yet  the  veil 

Of  blindness  had  descended. 

Who  shall  say 
That  when  the  "  during  dark  "  had  steeped  his  sight, 
And  on  the  ebon  tablet  flashed  to  view 

His  Eden,  with  its  angels,  mystic,  bright, 
There  swept  not  his  unconscious  memory  through 
The  quiring  cherubs  that  I  see  to-day  ? 
London. 

^  The  church  in  which  Milton  worshipped,  and  is  buried. 


16  SONNETS. 


COMFORT  FOR  THE  KING. 

Upon  his  carven  couch  the  monarch  lay, 
Wrapt  in  Sidonian  purples  ;  but  no  trace 
0£  Bethlehem  ruddiness  was  on  his  face, 

Nor  as  a  king  he  spake,  —  "I  go  the  way 

Of  all  the  earth  :  "  —  but  as  a  man  who  may 
Find  solace  in  the  thought  —  that  of  the  race, 
Among  its  myriads,  none  should  miss  a  place 

Upon  the  path  that  he  must  tread  that  day. 

Ah,  human  comfort !  None  but  God  is  great 
Enough  for  loneliness  !  Man  in  his  dearth 

Of  help  or  hope,  succumbing  to  his  fate. 
Finds  what  a  tender  reconcilement  hath 

This  royal  thought,  to  moss  the  flinty  path, 
—  'T  is  but  at  most  the  way  of  all  the  earth  ! 


SONNETS.  17 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

O  MASTER  of  mysterious  harmony ! 

Well  hast  thou  proved  to  us  the  right  divine 
To  wear  thy  name.     The  glorious  Florentine 

Had  hailed  thee  comrade  on  the  Stygian  sea,  — 

Exiled  from  haunts  of  men,  and  sad  as  he  ; 
And  the  strong  angel  of  the  inner  shrine,  — 
Stooped  he  not  sometimes  to  that  soul  of  thine, 

On  messages  of  radiant  ministry  ? 

Thy  spiritual  breath  was  the  cathedral  air 

Of  the  dead  ages.     Saints  have  with  thee  talked. 

As  with  a  friend.     Thou  knewest  the  sacred  thrills 
That  moved  Angelico  to  tears  and  prayer  ; 

And  thou,  as  in  a  daily  dream,  hast  walked 
With  Perugino  midst  his  Umhrian  hills. 


18  SONNETS. 


THE  SIBYL'S   DOUBT.^ 

"  This  throbbing,  reasoning,  passionate  soul,"  she  said, 
"  May  be  a  mere  secretion,  hidden  away 
As  life  is  hidden  within  this  coil  of  clay, 

So  subtly  that  all  search  of  ages  dead 

Has  failed  to  probe  its  secret,  or  to  shed 
More  light  upon  the  Everlasting  Yea 
Than  Plato  knew  :  and  so  I  grope  to-day 

Mid  doubts  no  Academe  has  quieted." 

What  matters,  then,  if  ill,  or  good,  or  glad,  — 
This  life  not  worth  the  toil ;  this  strife  so  brief, 

That  only  ends  in  some  Nirvana  dream, 

Or  dark  perhaps,  that  makes  the  future  seem 

Annihilate  ?     No  marvel  she  was  sad. 
This  sibyl  brooding  in  her  unbelief ! 

1  Towards  the  close  of  her  life,  George  Eliot  was  accustomed  to 
put  forth  the  idea,  in  conversation,  that  "  the  soul  may  be  nothing 
more  than  a  secretion." 


SONNETS.  19 


HAYDN^S  LAST  QUARTET. 

Hin  ist  alle  meine  Kraft :  alt  und  schwach  bin  ich. 

Within  the  old  maestro^s  brooding  brain 
A  yearning  inspiration  stirred  once  more ; 
And  catching  up  the  long-neglected  score, 

He  sought  with  trembling  hand  to  link  a  chain, 

Wherewith  to  capture  the  seolian  strain, 
And  cage  it  with  his  chords,  as  heretofore. 
Ere  it  should  flutter  from  his  touch,  and  soar 

Where  never  breath  should  weight  its  wings  again. 

His  fingers  feebly  groped  among  the  keys, 
As  moaning  to  himself,  they  heard  him  say, 

"  Gone  is  my  skill,  and  old  and  weak  am  I :  " 
And  when  he  ceased  the  labored  movement,  there 

Was  this  one  line,  that  in  a  plaintive  sigh 
Of  sobbing  iterations  died  away. 


20  SONNETS. 


PRINCE  DEUCALION. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Bayard  Taylor's  drama  "  Prince  Deukalion  "  was 
published  at  the  time  of  his  death. 

The  closing  act  was  reached,  the  drama  done, 
And  the  magician  who  had  wrought  the  spell 
Let  drop  the  curtain.     Tranced,  we  scarce  could  tell 

Where  lay  his  power,  as,  shifting  one  by  one 

The  scenes,  he  showed  us  how  the  ages  run 

On  toward  that  life  where  all  perfections  dwell. 
Ending,  he  said,  "  Not  mine,  I  deem  fuU  well. 

To  dare  divine  thsit  future  known  to  none." 

What  secret  summons  came,  we  cannot  know ; 

But,  on  the  instant  turned,  as  though  he  heard 
A  voice  beyond  the  close-drawn  curtain,  call  — 

And  parting  it  with  gesture  calm  and  slow. 
He  stepped  within,  nor  spake  another  word : 

And  now,  behind  the  veil,  he  knows  it  all ! 


SONNETS.  21 


PRO  REPUBLICA. 

Not  for  thyself,  O  high,  heroic  soul ! 

Didst  thou  endure  the  rack  of  martyr-pain ; 

Not  for  thyself,  thou  caredst  to  mamtain 
So  grandly  the  stern  struggle,  though  the  whole 
Heart-yearning  world,  thriUed  with  one  strange  control, 

Stood  by  with  bated  breath  and  eyes  astrain. 

Waiting,  when  thou  the  fearful  fight  shouldst  gain, 
To  girdle  earth  with  pasans  to  either  pole. 

No  Roman  falling  on  the  victor's  field, 
Rang  out,  in  dying,  with  sublimer  breath 

His  Pro  Bepublica,  or  fixed  an  eye 

Of  calmer  sacrifice  —  that  would  not  yield 

Till  bidden  of  Heaven  —  upon  the  face  of  Death 
Than  thou,  who  for  our  sakes  hast  dared  to  die. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


THE   MYSTERY  OF  CRO-A-TAN. 

The  first  English  colony  was  sent  to  America  by  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  under  the  auspices  of  Sir  Richard  Granville.  The  settle- 
ment was  made  on  Roanoke  Island  in  Albemarle  Sound. 

A.  D.  1587. 

I. 

The  home-bound  ships  stood  out  to  sea, 

And  on  the  island's  marge, 
Sir  Richard  waited  restlessly 

To  step  into  the  barge. 

"  The  Governor  tarrieth  long,"  he  chode, 
"As  he  were  loath  to  go  : 
With  food  before,  and  want  behind. 
There  should  be  haste,  I  trow.'* 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  23 

Even  as  he  spake  the  Governor  came :  — 

"  Nay,  fret  not,  for  the  men 
Have  held  me  back  with  frantic  let, 

To  have  them  home  again. 

"  The  women  weep  ;  — '  Ay,  ay,  the  ships 

Will  come  again,'  (he  saith,) 
*  Before  the  May  :  —  Before  the  May 
We  shall  have  starved  to  death ! ' 

"  I  've  sworn  return  by  God's  dear  leave, 
I  've  vowed  by  Court  and  Crown, 
Nor  yet  appeased  them.     Comrade,  thou, 
Mayhap,  canst  soothe  them  down." 

Sir  Richard  loosed  his  helm,  and  stretched 
Impatient  hands  abroad  :  — 
"  Have  ye  no  trust  in  man  ?  "  he  cried, 
"  Have  ye  no  faith  in  God  ? 

"  Your  Governor  goes,  as  needs  he  must, 
To  bear  through  royal  grace. 
Hither,  such  food-supply,  that  want 
May  never  blench  a  face. 


24  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

"  Of  freest  choice  ye  willed  to  leave 
What  so  ye  had  of  ease ; 
For  neither  stress  of  liege  nor  law 
Hath  forced  you  over  seas. 

"  Your  Governor  leaves  fair  hostages 
As  costliest  pledge  of  care,  — 
His  daughter  yonder,  and  her  child, 
The  child  Virginia  Dare.^ 

**  Come  hither,  little  sweetheart !     So  ! 

Thou  *lt  be  the  first,  I  ween. 
To  bend  the  knee,  and  send  through  me 
Thy  birthland's  virgin  fealty, 

Unto  its  Virgin  Queen. 

"  And  now,  good  folk,  for  my  commands  : 
If  ye  are  fain  to  roam 
Beyond  this  island's  narrow  bounds. 
To  seek  elsewhere  a  home,  — 

"  Upon  some  pine-tree's  smoothen  trunk 
Score  deep  the  Indian  name 

^  Virginia  Dare,  the  granddaughter  of  Governor  Whyte,  was  the 
first  English  child  bom  in  America. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  25 

Of  tribe  or  village  where  ye  haunt, 
That  we  may  read  the  same. 

"  And  if  ye  leave  your  haven  here 
Through  dire  distress  or  loss, 
Cut  deep  within  the  wood  above. 
The  symbol  of  the  cross. 

"  And  now  on  my  good  blade,  I  swear, 

And  seal  it  with  this  sign. 
That  if  the  fleet  that  sails  to-day 
Return  not  hither  by  the  May, 

The  fault  shall  not  be  mine  !  " 

II. 

The  breath  of  spring  was  on  the  sea ; 

Anon  the  Governor  stepped 
His  good  ship's  deck  right  merrily,  — 

His  promise  had  been  kept. 

"  See,  see  !  the  coast-line  comes  in  view !  " 

He  heard  the  mariners  shout,  — 
"  We  '11  drop  our  anchors  in  the  Sound 

Before  a  star  is  out !  " 


26  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

"  Now  God  be  praised  !  "  he  inly  breathed, 
"  Who  saves  from  all  that  harms  ; 
The  morrow  morn  my  pretty  ones 
Will  rest  within  my  arms." 

At  dawn  of  day,  they  moored  their  ships, 
And  dared  the  breakers'  roar  : 

What  meant  it  ?     Not  a  man  was  there 
To  welcome  them  ashore  ! 

They  sprang  to  find  the  cabins  rude ; 

The  quick  green  sedge  had  thrown 
Its  knotted  web  o'er  every  door, 

And  climbed  the  chimney-stone. 

The  spring  was  choked  with  winter's  leaves, 

And  feebly  gurgled  on ; 
And  from  the  pathway,  strewn  with  wrack, 

All  trace  of  feet  was  gone. 

Their  fingers  thrid  the  matted  grass. 
If  there,  perchance,  a  mound 

Unseen  might  heave  the  broken  turf : 
But  not  a  grave  was  found. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  2T 

They  beat  the  tangled  cypress  swamp, 

If  haply  in  despair 
They  might  have  strayed  into  its  glade  : 

But  found  no  vestige  there. 

"  The  pine  !  the  pine  !  "  the  Governor  groaned ; 
And  there  each  staring  man 
Read  in  a  maze,  one  single  word, 
Deep  carven,  —  Cro-a-tXn  ! 

But  cut  above,  no  cross,  no  sign. 

No  symbol  of  distress  ; 
Naught  else  beside  that  mystic  line, 

Within  the  wilderness  ! 

And  where  and  what  was  "  Cro-a-tan  ''  ? 

But  not  an  answer  came  ; 
And  none  of  all  who  read  it  there 

Had  ever  heard  the  name. 

The  Governor  drew  his  jerkin  sleeve 
Across  his  misty  eyes  ; 
"  Some  land,  may  be,  of  savagery 
Beyond  the  coast  that  lies  ; 


28  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

"  And  skulking  there  the  wily  foe 
In  ambush  may  have  lain  ; 
God's  mercy  !     Could  such  sweetest  heads 
Lie  scalped  among  the  slain  ? 

"  O  daughter  !  daughter  !  with  the  thought 
My  harrowed  brain  is  wild  ! 
Up  with  the  anchors  !     I  must  find 
The  mother  and  the  child  !  " 

They  scoured  the  mainland  near  and  far : 
The  search  no  tidings  brought  ; 

Till  mid  a  forest's  dusky  tribe 

They  heard  the  name  they  sought. 

The  kindly  natives  came  with  gifts 
Of  corn  and  slaughtered  deer ; 

What  room  for  savage  treachery 
Or  foul  suspicion  here  ? 

Unhindered  of  a  chief  or  brave, 

They  searched  the  wigwam  through  ; 
But  neither  lance  nor  helm  nor  spear, 
Nor  shred  of  child's  nor  woman's  gear. 
Could  furnish  forth  a  clue. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  29 

How  could  a  hundred  souls  be  caught 

Straight  out  of  life,  nor  find 
Device  through  which  to  mark  their  fate, 

Or  leave  some  hint  behind  ? 

Had  winter's  ocean  inland  rolled 

An  eagre's  deadly  spray. 
That  overwhelmed  the  island's  breadth, 

And  swept  them  all  away  ? 

In  vain,  in  vain,  their  heart-sick  search  ! 

No  tidings  reached  them  more  ; 
No  record  save  that  silent  word 

Upon  that  silent  shore. 

The  mystery  rests  a  mystery  still. 

Unsolved  of  mortal  man  : 
Sphinx-like  untold,  the  ages  hold 

The  tale  of  Cro-a-tXn  ! 


30  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


SIR  WALTER'S  HONOR.^ 

A.  D.  1618. 
I. 
1. 
"  O  MOTHER !  fling  thy  fears  away, 
Bid  sorrow  from  thy  brow  ! 
My  father's  ships,  the  sailors  say, 
Are  in  the  offing  now." 

2. 

"  Nay,  lad  !     Full  oft  before  to  me 
Hath  come  the  self-same  tale  ; 
A  thousand  times  I  Ve  scanned  the  sea. 
And  never  seen  his  sail." 

3. 

"  But  hark,  sweet  mother  !  in  the  street 
The  folk  make  wild  uproar : 

^  An  incident  in  the  life  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  31 

Haste  !  let  us  be  the  first  to  greet 
His  step  upon  the  shore." 

4. 

**  Ah,  boy  !  how  dare  my  heart  believe  ? 
How  dare  I  crave,  good  lack ! 
While  foes  so  plot  and  friends  deceive, 
To  have  thy  father  back  ? 


*'  They  watch  to  seize  and  search  his  ship, 
And  oh  !  mine  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  terror  palsies  heart  and  lip  : 
They  lay  their  snares  for  him  — 

6. 

"  My  noble  lord,  who  weighed  no  pain, 
Nor  toil  nor  cost,  I  ween, 
Nor  ruth  of  savage  lands,  to  gain 
New  kingdoms  for  his  Queen. 

7. 

"  Bermoothes'  rocks  that  gulfed  his  masts, 
And  tempest-wrack  and  foam, 


COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

Are  kinder  than  the  King  who  blasts 
The  joy  of  coming  home  !  " 


n. 

1. 

With  drooping  sail  and  shattered  mast, 

Sir  Walter's  galleons  lay 
Beyond  the  bar,  but  soon  they  cast 

Anchor  in  Plymouth  Bay. 


He  leaped  to  shore  with  bated  breath, 

For  there,  right  full  in  view, 
Stood  his  fair  wife,  Elizabeth, 

And  his  fair  son,  Carew. 

3. 

**  My  Bess  !  "  he  cried,  —  "  my  Bess,  my  boy  I " 
As  through  the  throng  he  pressed, 
And  caught  her  in  his  weary  joy, 
Dead-swooning,  to  his  breast. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  33 

4. 

And  while  he  soothed  her  pale  alarms 

With  words  all  passion-sweet, 
He  heard  a  troop  of  men-at-arms 

Come  clattering  down  the  street. 

5. 
He  turned  to  see,  as  on  they  rode 

All  dight  in  gallant  sheen  : 
Then  out  spake  he  right  merrily 

With  cheer  of  voice  and  mien  :  — 

6. 
"  Ha,  good  my  cousin !     Scarce  I  thought 
Such  welcomings  to  win 
As  thy  fair  courtesy  hath  brought 
To  greet  thy  kith  and  kin !  ^ 

7. 

*'  Gramercy !     I  am  fain  to  vow 

I  nevermore  will  roam, 

Since  with  such  knightly  guise  as  now, 

Ye  hail  the  wanderer  home !  " 

^  Sir  Lewis  Stukely,  who  arrested  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  on  his  re- 
turn from  his  last  voyage,  was  his  cousin. 


34  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

8. 
Sir  Lewis  quickly  drew  his  blade, 

As  from  his  steed  he  sprang, 
And  on  his  kinsman's  shoulder  laid 

Its  weight  with  sudden  clang. 

9. 

He  gave  no  greet,  but  on  the  ear 
His  words  did  sharply  ring : 
"  Sir  Walter,  I  arrest  thee  here 
By  mandate  of  the  King  /  " 

10. 

"  What  hath  he  done  ?  "  the  boy  Carew 
Flashed  forth  with  angry  frown  ; 
And  from  his  father's  shoulder  drew 
The  naked  weapon  down. 

11. 
"  '  What  hath  he  done  ? '     Why,  treason's  taint 
Hung  o'er  his  head  of  old  ; 
And  he  hath  failed,  though  thrice  he  sailed, 
To  find  the  mine  of  gold ; 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  35 

12. 
"  And  sheer  against  the  King's  commands, 
Who  craves  all  grace  of  Spain, 
He  left  on  Orinoco's  sands 
Full  fifty  Spaniards  slain. 

13. 

"  Nay  !  peace  !    What  if  they  were  the  first 
To  fall  upon  thy  crew  ? 
The  scant  pretence  of  such  defence 
Is  weak  to  bear  thee  through !  " 

14. 

"  Would  God  I  were  a  man  !     I  trow 
My  hand  a  thrust  should  deal,"  — 
Out  spake  Carew,  —  "  and  thou  shouldst  know 
The  temper  of  my  steel !  " 

15. 
"  Tush,  boy !  "  Sir  Lewis  jeered  in  wrath, 
"  Let  go  thy  puny  wrest ! 
By  Heaven  !  the  fledgling  eaglet  hath 
The  daring  of  the  nest ! 


36  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

16. 
"  Ho,  forward,  sturdy  musketeers  ! 
Aside  the  stripling  fling  ! 
Bold  lad  be  he  who  interferes 
With  orders  from  the  King !  " 

17. 

And  ere  Sir  Walter  turned  about. 

And  ere  the  truth  he  wist, 
They  drew  the  linked  iron  out. 

And  clasped  it  on  his  wrist. 

18. 
"  Have  off  with  him  !     Beshrew  me,  how 
Young  malapert  doth  frown  ! 
But  minding  of  his  mother  now 
Will  cool  his  courage  down !  " 

19. 

"  Sir  Lewis  !  "  —  and  the  boy  Carew 
Fast  clenched  his  fist,  —  "  thy  son 
Will  blush  with  shame,  some  day,  to  name 
The  deed  which  thou  hast  done  !  " 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  37 


III. 


1. 

'T  was  midnight :  but  in  Plymouth  yet 

Went  on  the  wassail-bout ; 
The  early  moon  was  just  a-set, 

And  all  the  stars  were  out ; 

2. 

When  at  Sir  Walter's  prison-bars 

A  muffled  tap  was  heard  : 
And  as  his  ear  was  bent  to  hear, 

He  caught  the  whispered  word  : 

3. 

"  Haste,  father,  haste !  the  way  is  clear  ; 
I  Ve  bribed  the  seneschal ; 
The  warder  o'er  the  henchmen's  beer 
Keeps  riot  in  the  hall. 


"  I  hold  the  key  that  opes  the  gates, 
And  at  the  water-stair. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

In  the  moored  barge,  my  mother  waits,  - 
She  waits  to  meet  thee  there. 

5. 

'^  Quick,  father  !  catch  thy  doublet  up, 
Without  a  moment's  stay  : 
Before  they  drain  their  latest  cup 
We  must  be  far  away. 

6. 

"  Outside  the  bar  a  galley  lies, 
And  ere  the  sun  doth  glance 
Its  earliest  beam  across  the  skies 
We  shall  be  safe  in  France." 

7. 
"  Ah,  boy !  my  boy  !  my  brave  Carew  ! 
Why  tempt  thy  father  so  ? 
I  —  loyal,  conscience-clear,  and  true,  — 
What  need  have  7  to  go  ? 

8. 
"  My  traitorous  foes,  once  trusted  friends. 
Would  be  the  first  to  say 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  39 

I  flout  the  laws  and  flee,  because 
I  am  as  false  as  they." 

9. 

"  Yet,  father,  come  !     Foul  threats  they  bring, 
Dark  counsels  they  have  planned  ; 
And  justice  thou  shalt  never  wring 
From  cold  King  James's  hand  ! 

10. 

"  My  mother  at  the  water's  brink 
Waits,  all  her  fears  awake  ; 
And  if  escape  should  fail  —  I  think  — 
I  think  her  heart  would  break  ! " 

11. 

Too  much !     His  bravery  shrank  to  meet 

The  weight  of  such  a  blow ; 
And  springing  instant  to  his  feet, 

He  answered,  "  I  will  go  !  " 

12. 

They  groped  adown  the  stony  hall ; 
They  found  the  door  unbarred  ; 


40  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

And  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
They  crossed  the  prison-yard. 

13. 
With  stealthy  steps  they  reached  the  shore, 

And  on  its  rapid  way, 
The  boat,  with  softly-dipping  oar, 

Dropped  down  the  silent  bay. 


IV. 

1. 

Across  the  starlit  stream  they  steal 

Without  one  uttered  word  ; 
The  waters  gurgling  at  the  keel 

Was  all  the  sound  they  heard. 

2. 

The  good  French  bark  that  soon  would  bear 
Them  hence,  lay  full  in  view ; 
"  An  oar's  length  more,  and  we  are  there  /  " 
Whispered  the  boy  Carew. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  41 

3. 

They  rocked  within  its  shadow.     Then 

Sir  Walter,  under  breath, 
First  spoke,  and  kissed  and  kissed  again 

Lady  Elizabeth. 

4. 

"  Nay,  Bess,  it  must  not,  shall  not  be. 
Whatever  others  can, 
That  I  should  like  a  dastard  flee, 
For  fear  of  mortal  man  ! 

5. 

"  All  Orinoco's  mines  of  gold. 
All  virgin  realms  I  claim. 
Are  less  to  me  a  thousand-fold 
Than  my  untarnished  name. 

6. 

"  Put  back  the  boat !     Nay,  sweet,  no  moan  ! 
Thy  love  is  so  divine 
That  thou  wouldst  rather  die  than  own 
A  craven  heart  were  mine  ! 


42  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

7. 
"  My  purse,  good  oarsman !     Pull  thy  best, 
And  we  may  make  the  shore. 
Before  the  latest  trencher-guest 
Has  left  the  warder's  door. 

8. 
"  Hist !   not  one  other  pleading  word  : 

Life  were  not  worth  a  groat, 
If  breath  of  shame  could  blur  my  name : 
Put  back  !  put  back  the  boat ! 

9. 

"  Ah,  Bess  1  .  .  .  (she  is  too  stunned  to  hear  !) 
But  thou,  my  boy,  Carew, 
Shalt  pledge  thy  vow,  even  here  and  now, 
That  faithful,  tried,  and  true  ; 

10. 
"  Thou  It  choose,  whatever  stress  may  rise, 
Whilst  thou  hast  life  and  breath, 
Before  temjptation^  sacrifice  ; 
Before  dishonor^  death  !  " 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  43 


V. 


1. 

The  boatman  turned  ;  he  dared  not  bide, 

Nor  say  Sir  Walter  nay  ; 
And  with  his  oars  against  the  tide, 

He  labored  up  the  bay. 

2. 

And  when  beside  the  water-stair, 
With  grief  no  words  can  tell, 

They  braced  themselves  at  length  to  bear 
The  wrench  of  the  farewell ; 


The  boy,  with  proud  yet  tearful  eyes, 
Kept  murmuring  under  breath, 
"  Before  temptation,  sacrifice  ; 
Bef(yre  dishonor^  death  !  " 


44  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


THE  LAST  MEETING  OF  POCAHONTAS  AND 
THE   GREAT   CAPTAIN.^ 

A.  D.  1616. 

In  a  stately  hall  at  Brentford,  when  the  English  June 

was  green, 
Sat  the  Indian  Princess,  summoned  that  her  graces  might 

be  seen, 
For  the  rumor  of  her  beauty  filled  the  ear  of  court  and 

Queen. 

There  for  audience  as  she  waited,  with  half-scornful,  silent 
air. 

All  undazzled  by  the  splendor  gleaming  round  her  every- 
where, 

Dight  in  broidered  hose  and  doublet,  came  a  courtier 
down  the  stair. 

^A  reference  to  this  interview  between  the  "Lady  Rebecca" 
and  Captain  John  Smith  may  be  found  in  Smith's  Triie  Relation 
of  Virginia. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  45 

As   with    striding    step   he   hasted,   burdened   with    the 

Queen's  command, 
Loud  he  cried,  in  tones  that  tingled,  "  Welcome^  welcome 

to  my  land  !  " 
But  a  tremor  seized  the  Princess,  and  she  drooped  upon 

her  hand. 

"  What !  no  word,  my  Sparkling-Water  ?  ^     Must  I  come 

on  bended  knee  ? 
I  were  slain  within  the  forest,  I  were  dead  beyond  the 

sea; 
On  the  banks  of  wild  Pamunkey,  I  had  perished  hut  for 

thee, 

"  Ah,  I  keep  a  heart  right  loyal,  that  can  never  more 

forget ! 
I  can  hear  the  rush,  the  breathing  ;  I  can  see  the  eyelids 

wet; 
I  can  feel  the  sudden  tightening  of  thine  arms  about  me 

yet. 

"  Nay,  look  up.     Thy  father's  daughter  never  feared  the 
face  of  man, 

^  The  signification  of  the  word  Pocahontas. 


46  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

Shrank  not  from  the  forest  darkness  when  her  doe-like 
footsteps  ran 

To  my  cabin,  bringing  tidings  of  the  craft  of  Powha- 
tan." 

With  extended  arms,  entreating,  stood  the  stalwart  Cap- 
tain there. 

While  the  courtiers  press  around  her,  and  the  passing 
pages  stare  ; 

But  no  sign  gave  Pocahontas  underneath  her  veil  of  hair. 

All  her  lithe  and  willowy  figure  quivered  like  an  aspen- 
leaf, 

And  she  crouched  as  if  she  shrivelled,  frost-touched  by 
some  sudden  grief. 

Turning  only  on  her  husband,  Rolfe,  one  glance,  sharp, 
searching,  brief. 

At  the  Captain's  haughty  gesture,  back  the  curious  cour- 
tiers fell, 

And  with  soothest  word  and  accent  he  besought  that  she 
would  tell 

Why  she  turned  away,  nor  greeted  him  whom  she  had 
served  so  well. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  47 

But  for  two  long  hours  the  Princess  dumbly  sate  and 

bowed  her  head, 
Moveless  as  the  statue  near  her.    When  at  last  she  spake, 

she  said  : 
"  White  man's  tongue  is  false.     It  told  me  —  told  me  — 

that  my  brave  was  dead. 

"  And  I  lay  upon  my  deer-skins  all  one  moon  of  falling 

leaves, 
(Who  hath  care  for  song  or  corn-dance,  when  the  voice 

within  her  grieves  ?) 
Looking  westward  where  the  souls  go,  up  the  path  the 

sunset  weaves. 

"  Call  me  '  child  '  now.     It  is  over.     On  my  husband's 

arm  I  lean ; 
Never  shadow,  Nenemoosa,  our  twain  hearts  shall  come 

between ; 
Take  my  hand,  and  let  us  follow  the  great  Captain  to  his 

Queen.'' 


48  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

A.  D.  1622. 

"And  now,"  said  the  Governor,  gazing  abroad  on  the 

piled-up  store 
Of  the  sheaves  that  dotted  the  clearings  and  covered  the 

meadows  o'er, 
"  'T  is  meet  that  we  render  praises  because  of  this  yield 

of  grain; 
'Tis  meet  that  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  be  thanked  for 

His  sun  and  rain. 

"  And  therefore,  I,  William  Bradford,  (by  the  grace  of 
God  to-day, 

And  the  franchise  of  this  good  people,)  Governor  of  Ply- 
mouth, say. 

Through  virtue  of  vested  power  —  ye  shall  gather  with 
one  accord. 

And  hold,  in  the  month  November,  thanksgiving  unto 
the  Lord. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  49 

"  He  hath  granted  us  peace  and  plenty,  and  the  quiet 
we  Ve  sought  so  long ; 

He  hath  thwarted  the  wily  savage,  and  kept  him  from 
wrack  and  wrong ; 

And  unto  our  feast  the  Sachem  shall  he  hidden,  that  he 
may  know 

We  worship  his  own  Great  Spirit  who  maketh  the  har- 
vests grow. 

"  So  shoulder  your  matchlocks,  masters  :  there  is  hunting 

of  all  degrees ; 
And  fishermen,  take  your  tackle,  and  scour  for  spoil  the 

seas; 
And  maidens  and  dames  of  Plymouth,  your  delicate  crafts 

employ 
To  honor  our  First  Thanksgiving,  and  make  it  a  feast 

of  joy ! 

"  We  fail  of  the  fruits  and  dainties  —  we  fail  of  the  old 

home  cheer ; 
Ah,  these  are  the  lightest  losses,  mayhap,  that  hefall  us 

here ; 
But  see,  in  our  open  clearings,  how  golden  the  melons  lie ; 
Enrich  them  with  sweets  and  spices,  and   give  us  the 

pumpkin-pie !  " 


50  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

So,  bravely  the  preparations  went  on  for  the  autumn  feast ; 
The  deer  and  the  bear  were  slaughtered  ;  wild  game  from 

the  greatest  to  least 
Was   heaped   in   the   colony  cabins ;   brown  home-brew 

served  for  wine, 
And  the  plum  and  the  grape  of  the  forest,  for  orange  and 

peach  and  pine. 

At  length  came  the  day  appointed :  the  snow  had  begun 

to  fall, 
But  the  clang  from  the  meeting-house  belfry  rang  merrily 

over  all, 
And  summoned  the  folk  of  Plymouth,  who  hastened  with 

glad  accord 
To  listen  to  Elder  Brewster  as  he  fervently  thanked  the 

Lord. 

In  his  seat  sate  Governor  Bradford ;  men,  matrons,  and 

maidens  fair ; 
Miles  Standish  and  all   his  soldiers,  with  corselet  and 

sword,  were  there ; 
And  sobbing  and  tears  and  gladness  had  each  in  its  turn 

the  sway. 
For  the  grave  of  the  sweet  Rose  Standish  o'ershadowed 

Thanksgiving-Day. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  61 

And  when  Massasoit,  the  Sachem,  sate  down  with  his 

hundred  braves, 
And  ate  of  the  varied  riches  of  gardens  and  woods  and 

waves, 
And  looked  on  the  granaried  harvest,  —  with  a  blow  on 

his  brawny  chest, 
He  muttered,  "  The  good  Great  Spirit  loves  His  white 

children  best !  " 


62  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


THE   PRICE  OF  A  LITTLE  PILGRIM. 

A.  D.  1621. 

"  Go,  wind  the  signal-horn,  and  hid 
My  hand  of  trusty  men 
Come  stern  and  grim,  in  fighting  trim, 
That  I  may  choose  me  ten. 

"  They  may  not  wait  to  kiss  their  wives, 
For  there  's  a  life  at  cost,  — 
A  tender  one,  —  the  widow's  son, 
Ralph  Billington,  is  lost : 

"  The  pretty  lad  that  often  drew 
My  sword,  and  vowed  that  yet 
He  'd  march  away  some  summer  day 
And  capture  Aspinet." 

So  spake  the  Plymouth  Governor, 
And  at  the  signal  sound 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  63 

Forth  came  the  band  at  his  command, 
And  crowded  eager  round. 

"Ten  only,"  Governor  Bradford  said, 
"Will  fill  the  boat  enow ; 
I  want  but  ten  strong-handed  men, 
Now  which  of  you  will  go  ?  " 

They  shouted,  "  I !  "  and  "  I !  "  and  "  I !  " 

"  Nay,  hold !  "  he  bade,  "  I  'U  find 
Some  Gideon-test  to  mark  the  best ; 
The  rest  shall  bide  behind. 

"  Ye  who  are  fathers,  —  ye  whose  homes 
Are  glad  with  children's  joy,  — 
Your  quest,  I  wot,  will  slacken  not, 
Till  ye  have  found  the  boy." 

The  shallop  manned,  they  searched  the  coast, 

They  beat  the  tangled  wild  ; 
And  sought  to  trace,  in  many  a  place. 

Some  tidings  of  the  child. 

They  steered  through  silent,  sheltered  coves, 
They  skimmed  the  marshes  wide  ; 


64  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

And  all  around  the  shallows  wound, 
With  Squanto  ^  for  their  guide. 

At  length  they  saw  a  curl  of  smoke 

Float  o'er  the  distant  trees  ; 
And  all  about,  the  whoop  and  shout 

Came  blown  upon  the  breeze. 

Scarce  had  they  landed,  when  the  cry 

Of  "  Yengese  /  "  ^  rent  the  air  ; 
And  even  before  they  touched  the  shore 

The  foe  was  yelling  there, 

Each  with  his  arrow  drawn  to  head : 
*'  Stay  !  stay !  "  cried  Squanto,  "  let 

True  braves  be  friends :  our  Sachem  sends 
To  you  his  calumet. 

"  The  mother  in  her  wigwam  weeps. 
Bereft  of  peace  and  joy  ; 
Now  we  would  know  if  it  be  so 
That  ye  have  found  her  boy." 

^  One  of  the  earliest  friends  of  the  Plymouth  Colony. 

^  The  Indian  term  for  the  English,  and  the  original  of  Yankees. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  55 

"  Ugh  !  "  growled  the  wily  Aspinet ; 
"  What  will  the  Yengese  grant, 
If  I  set  loose  the  white  papoose, 
And  bring  him  from  Nahant  ?  " 

"  Name  what  ye  will,"  the  Captain  cried, 
"  So  much  we  prize  his  life !  " 
The  vSachem  heard,  and  with  brief  word 
Muttered,  "  A  knife  !  a  knife  I  " 

"  Good  !  "  and  the  Captain  grimly  smiled 
Aside  :  "  And  yet  I  trow 
The  dame  will  be  scarce  pleased  that  we 
Should  rate  her  boy  so  low  ! 

"  Go,  Squanto,  hither  fetch  the  lad ; 
And  lest  it  will  not  do, 
For  one  jack-knife  to  buy  a  life, 
Why,  Squanto,  give  him  two  !  " 


66  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 


THE  FIRST  PROCLAMATION  OF  MILES 
STANDISH. 

November,  A.  D.  1620. 

"  Ho,  Rose  ! "  quoth  the  stout  Miles  Standish, 
As  he  stood  on  the  Mayflower's  deck, 
And  gazed  on  the  sandy  coast-line  * 

That  loomed  as  a  misty  speck 

On  the  edge  of  the  distant  offing,  — 

"  See  !  yonder  we  have  in  view 
Bartholomew  Gosnold's  '  headlands.' 

'T  was  in  sixteen  hundred  and  two 

"  That  the  Concord  of  Dartmouth  anchored 
Just  there  where  the  beach  is  broad, 
And  the  merry  old  captain  named  it 

(Half  swamped  by  the  fish)  —  Cape  Cod. 

"  And  so  as  his  mighty  *  headlands  ' 
Are  scarcely  a  league  away, 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  67 

What  say  you  to  landing,  sweetheart, 
And  having  a  washing-day  ? 

"  For  did  not  the  mighty  Leader 
Who  guided  the  chosen  band 
Pause  under  the  peaks  of  Sinai, 
And  issue  his  strict  command  — 

"  (For  even  the  least  assoilment 
Of  Egypt  the  spirit  loathes)  — 
Or  ever  they  entered  Canaan,  ^ 

The  people  should  wash  their  clothes  ? 

"  The  land  we  have  left  is  noisome, 
And  rank  with  the  smirch  of  sin  ; 
The  land  that  we  seek  should  find  us 
Clean-vestured  without  and  within." 

"  Dear  heart "  —  and  the  sweet  Rose  Standish 
Looked  up  with  a  tear  in  her  eye ; 
She  was  back  in  the  flag-stoned  kitchen 
Where  she  watched,  in  the  days  gone  by, 

Her  mother  among  her  maidens, 

(She  should  watch  them  no  more,  alas !) 


58  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

And  saw  as  they  stretched  the  linen 
To  bleach  on  the  Suffolk  grass. 

In  a  moment  her  brow  was  cloudless, 
As  she  leaned  on  the  vessel's  rail, 

And  thought  of  the  sea-stained  garments, 
Of  coif  and  of  farthingale ; 

And  the  doublets  of  fine  Welsh  flannel, 
The  tuckers  and  homespun  gowns, 

And  the  piles  of  the  hosen  knitted 
From  the  wool  of  the  Devon  downs. 

So  the  matrons  aboard  the  Mayflower 
Made  ready  with  eager  hand 

To  drop  from  the  deck  their  baskets 
As  soon  as  the  prow  touched  land. 

And  there  did  the  Pilgrim  Mothers, 
"  On  a  Monday,"  the  record  says. 

Ordain  for  their  new-found  England 
The  first  of  her  washing-days. 

And  there  did  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
With  matchlock  and  axe  well  slung. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  59 

Keep  guard  o'er  the  smoking  kettles 
That  propt  on  the  crotches  hung. 

For  the  trail  of  the  startled  savage 

Was  over  the  marshy  grass, 
And  the  glint  of  his  eyes  kept  peering 

Through  cedar  and  sassafras. 

And  the  children  were  mad  with  pleasure 
As  they  gathered  the  twigs  in  sheaves, 

And  piled  on  the  fire  the  fagots, 
And  heaped  up  the  autumn  leaves. 

"  Do  the  thing  that  is  next,"  saith  the  proverb, 
And  a  nobler  shall  yet  succeed :  — 
'T  is  the  motive  exalts  the  action  ; 
'T  is  the  doing,  and  not  the  deed  ; 

For  the  earliest  act  of  the  heroes 
Whose  fame  has  a  world-wide  sway 

Was  —  to  fashion  a  crane  for  a  kettle, 
And  order  a  washing-day ! 


60  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


ST.   BOTOLPH'S  CHIMES. 

A.  D.  1640. 

A  Puritan  and  his  little  daughter  speak  on  their  churchward  way. 

"  O  FATHER,  I  wish  I  could  go  to  church 
As  we  did  in  the  dear  old  times, 
When  we  waited  to  hear  the  Sunday  cheer 
Of  St.  Botolph's  morning  chimes  ! 

"  'T  was  lovely  to  walk  through  leafy  lanes 
In  the  beautiful  English  May  ; 
And  I  marvel  now,  as  I  think  of  it,  how 
You  ever  could  come  away. 

"  I  want  to  go  back  to  my  oaken  seat, 
Where  the  great  round  oriel  shed 
Its  crimsons  and  blues  and  golden  hues, 
All  over  my  hands  and  head. 

"  As  I  watched  their  glory,  the  service  seemed 
So  holy  and  rich  and  bright ! 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  61 

How  tender  the  glow  beside  this  snow, 
All  sheeted  and  dead  and  white ! 

"  And  the  carbines,  father,  —  they  only  hung, 
At  home,  in  the  great  oak  hall : 
Here,  we  take  them  abroad  to  the  house  of  God, 
Yet  shiver  with  fear,  for  all ! 

"  Oh,  to  mix  with  the  crowd  in  the  dear  old  street, 
In  safety  and  warmth  and  ease  ! 
Oh,  to  wait  for  the  swells  of  St.  Botolph's  bells, 
In  Boston  beyond  the  seas  !  " 

"  Nay,  daughter  !  it  irks  my  heart  to  hear 
Thee  hanker,  as  those  of  old. 
With  tears  on  thy  cheeks,  for  Egyptian  leeks, 
Because  thou  art  scared  and  cold. 

"  Why,  where  is  the  hero-spirit,  child  ? 
Thy  mother  forsook  her  Devon 
For  an  exile  here,  with  a  trust  as  clear 
As  if  she  were  going  to  Heaven  I 

"  Yea,  over  thy  face  the  oriePs  glint 
Might  shimmer  with  warming  glow ; 


62  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

But  for  me  the  touch  of  the  priestly  clutch 
Was  chiller  than  Shawmut's  ^  snow  ! 

"  I  *m  willing  to  fight  for  leave  to  pray, 
And  wade  with  my  carbine  slung 
On  my  shoulder,  and  so  all  chimes  forego 
St.  Botolph  hath  ever  rung, 

"  To  carry  thee  thus  to  the  church  to-day, 
As  stoutly  my  strong  arm  can, 
And  order  my  faith  as  my  conscience  saith, 
A  free  and  a  fearless  man ! 

"  But  sweetheart !  patiently  thou  must  wait. 
For  I  dream  of  an  end  of  pains. 
In  which  thou  shalt  walk  in  tender  talk, 
Through  better  than  English  lanes, 

"  With  comrades  as  kind  as  ever  strayed 
Beside  thee  o'er  Lincoln  leas. 
Or  listened  betimes  to  St.  Botolph's  chimes, 
In  Boston  beyond  the  seas !  " 

^  The  Indian  name  of  the  peninsida  on  which  Boston  is  built. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  63 


THE  PURITAN  MAIDEN'S  MAY-DAY. 

A.  D.  1686. 

Ah,  well-a-day !     The  grandams  say- 
That  they  had  merry  times 

When  they  were  young,  and  gayly  rung 
The  May-day  morning  chimes. 

Before  the  dark  was  gone,  the  lark 

Had  left  her  grassy  nest, 
And,  soaring  high,  set  all  the  sky 

Athrob  from  east  to  west ! 

The  hawthorn-bloom  with  rich  perfume 

Was  whitening  English  lanes. 
The  dewy  air  was  everywhere 

Alive  with  May-day  strains ; 

And  laughing  girls  with  tangled  curls, 
And  eyes  that  gleamed  and  glanced, 


64  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

And  ruddy  boys  with  mirth  and  noise, 
Around  the  May-pole  danced. 

Ah  me  !  the  sight  of  such  delight, 

The  joy,  the  whirl,  the  din, 
Such  merriment,  such  glad  content,  — 

How  could  it  be  a  sin  ? 

When  children  crowned  the  May-pole  round 

With  daisies  from  the  sod. 
What  was  it,  pray,  but  their  child's  way 

Of  giving  thanks  to  God  ? 

The  wild  bee  sups  from  buttercups 

The  honey  at  the  brim  : 
May  I  not  take  their  buds  and  make 

A  posy  up  for  Him  ? 

If,  as  I  pass  knee-deep  through  grass 
This  May-day  cool  and  bright, 

And  see  away  on  Boston  Bay 
The  lines  of  shimmering  light, 

I  gather  there  great  bunches  fair 
Of  May-flower  as  I  roam. 


COLON,! AL  BALLADS.  65 

And  with  them  round  my  forehead  crowned, 
Go  ladened  with  them  home  : 

And  then,  if  Bess  and  I  should  dress 

A  May-pole  with  our  wreath, 
And  just  for  play,  this  holiday. 

Should  dare  to  dance  beneath, 

My  father's  brow  would  frown  enow : 

"  Child  !  why  hast  thou  a  mind 
For  Popish  days  and  Romish  ways, 

And  lusts  we  've  left  behind  ?  " 

Our  grandam  says  that  her  May-days, 

With  mirth,  and  song,  and  flowers. 
And  lilt  of  rhymes  and  village  chimes. 

Were  happier  far  than  ours. 

If,  as  I  ween,  upon  the  green 

She  danced  with  merry  din, 
Yet  lived  to  be  the  saint  I  see, 

How  can  I  count  it  sin  ? 


66  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


LADY  YEARDLEY'S  GUEST. 

1654. 

'T  WAS  a  Saturday  night,  mid-winter, 

And  the  snow  with  its  sheeted  pall 
Had  covered  the  stubbled  clearings 

That  girdled  the  rude-built  "  Hall." 
But  high  in  the  deep-mouthed  chimney, 

'Mid  laughter  and  shout  and  din, 
The  children  were  piling  yule-logs 

To  welcome  the  Christmas  in. 

^  Ah,  so  !     We  '11  be  glad  to-morrow,'* 

The  mother  half-musing  said. 
As  she  looked  at  the  eager  workers. 

And  laid  on  a  sunny  head 
A  touch  as  of  benediction,  — 

"  For  Heaven  is  just  as  near 
The  father  at  far  Patuxent 

As  if  he  were  with  us  here. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  67 

"  So  choose  ye  the  pine  and  hoUy, 

And  shake  from  their  boughs  the  snow ; 
We  '11  garland  the  rough-hewn  rafters 

As  they  garlanded  long  ago,  — 
Or  ever  Sir  George  went  sailing  ^ 

Away  o'er  the  wild  sea-foam,  — 
In  my  beautiful  EngHsh  Sussex, 

The  happy  old  walls  at  home." 

She  sighed.     As  she  paused,  a  whisper 

Set  quickly  all  eyes  astrain : 
"  See  1  See  !  "  —  and  the  boy's  hand  pointed  — 

"  There  's  a  face  at  the  window  pane  !  " 
One  instant  a  ghastly  terror 

Shot  sudden  her  features  o'er  ; 
The  next,  and  she  rose  unblenching, 

And  opened  the  fast-barred  door. 

"  Who  be  ye  that  seek  admission  ? 
Who  Cometh  for  food  and  rest  ? 
This  night  is  a  night  above  others 
To  shelter  a  straying  guest." 

1  Sir  George  Yeardley,  Governor  of  the  Colony  of  Virginia,  in 
1626. 


68  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

Deep  out  of  the  snowy  silence 
A  guttural  answer  broke : 
"  I  come  from  the  great  Three  Elvers, 
I  am  chief  of  the  Roanoke." 

Straight  in  through  the  frightened  children, 

Unshrinking,  the  red  man  strode, 
And  loosed  on  the  blazing  hearthstone, 

From  his  shoulder,  a  light-borne  load ; 
And  out  of  the  pile  of  deer-skins. 

With  look  as  serene  and  mild 
As  if  it  had  been  his  cradle. 

Stepped  softly  a  four-year  child. 

As  he  chafed  at  the  fire  his  fingers, 

Close  pressed  to  the  brawny  knee, 
The  gaze  that  the  silent  savage 

Bent  on  him  was  strange  to  see  ; 
And  then,  with  a  voice  whose  yearning 

The  father  could  scarcely  stem, 
He  said,  to  the  children  pointing, 

"  I  want  him  to  be  like  them  I 

"  They  weep  for  the  boy  in  the  wigwam  : 
I  bring  him,  a  moon  of  days. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

To  learn  of  the  speaking  paper  ; 

To  hear  of  the  wiser  ways 
Of  the  people  heyond  the  water  ; 

To  break  with  the  plough  the  sod  ; 
To  be  kind  to  papoose  and  woman ; 

To  pray  to  the  white  man's  God." 

"  I  give  thee  my  hand  !  "     And  the  lady 

Pressed  forward  with  sudden  cheer ; 

"  Thou  shalt  eat  of  my  Enghsh  pudding, 

And  drink  of  my  Christmas  beer.  — 

My  darlings,  this  night,  remember 

All  strangers  are  kith  and  kin,  — 
This  night  when  the  dear  Lord's  Mother 
Could  find  no  room  at  the  inn !  " 

Next  morn  from  the  colony  belfry 

Pealed  gayly  the  Sunday  chime, 
And  merrily  forth  the  people 

Flocked,  keeping  the  Christmas  time ; 
And  the  lady,  with  bright-eyed  children 

Behind  her,  their  lips  a-smile, 
And  the  chief  in  his  skins  and  wampum, 

Came  walking  the  narrow  aisle. 


70  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

Forthwith  from  the  congregation 

Broke  fiercely  a  sullen  cry ; 
"  Out !  out !  with  the  crafty  red-shin  ! 

Have  at  him  I    A  spy  I  A  spy  !  " 
And  quickly  from  belts  leaped  daggers, 

And  swords  from  their  sheaths  flashed  bare, 
And  men  from  their  seats  defiant 

Sprang,  ready  to  slay  him  there. 

But  facing  the  crowd  with  courage 

As  calm  as  a  knight  of  yore, 
Stepped  bravely  the  fair-browed  woman 

The  thrust  of  the  steel  before  ; 
And  spake  with  a  queenly  gesture. 

Her  hand  on  the  chief's  brown  breast : 
"  Ye  dare  not  impeach  my  honor  ! 

Ye  dare  not  insult  my  guest !  " 

They  dropped,  at  her  word,  their  weapons, 
Half-shamed  as  the  lady  smiled. 

And  told  them  the  red  man's  story, 
And  showed  them  the  red  man's  child; 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  71 

And  pledged  them  her  broad  plantations, 

That  never  would  such  betray 
The  trust  that  a  Christian  woman 

Had  shown  on  a  Christmas-Day ! 


72  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  PAMUNKEY.^ 

A.  D.  1676. 

"  What  !   Ho ! "  Sir  William  Berkeley  cried,  with  hot, 

impetuous  air. 
As  scowlingly  his  seat  he  took  within  the  Governor's  chair ; 
"  She  comes,  forsooth,  with  savage  state,  to  make  the 

Council  stare. 

"  Commend  a  woman  for  her  wiles  !     We  English  never 

can 
(She  knows  it  well,)  as  gruffly  deal  with  woman  as  with 

man  ; 
And  so  she  thinks  to  cozen  us  with  some  deceitful  plan. 

"  Well,  bid  the  burgesses  to  place,  and  let  this  Queen  ap- 
pear, — 

^  Pamunkey  was  a  district  lying  between  the  York  River  and  the 
James.  Sir  William  Berkeley  was  Governor  of  the  colony  of  Vir- 
ginia from  1641  to  1677. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  73 

This  Cleopatra  of  the  woods,  —  in  all  her  feathered  gear : 
And  yet,  mayhap,  the  aid  I  Ve  asked,  she  comes  to  say, 
is  near." 

The  words  were  on  Sir  William's  lip,  when  wide  the  door 

was  flung. 
And  up  the  chamber  strode  the  Queen,  her  band  of  braves 

among, 
The  "  wampum-peak  "  of  sovereignty  about  her  forehead 

strung. 

A  silver  frontlet  crowned  her  brow.  King  Charles's  gift  to 

her, 
And  close  about  her  stately  form  was  wrapped  a  robe  of 

fur. 
Whose  fringe  of  shells  at  every  step  shook  with  a  tinkling 

stir. 

Beside  her  walked  a  slender  boy.    "My  son,"  she  proudly 

said,  — 
"  The  chief  of  broad  Pamunkey's  lands,  which  now  ye 

hold  instead, 

m 

Snatched   from   him,   since   the  King,  whose  word  once 
ruled  them  all,  is  dead." 


74  COLONIAL   BALLADS, 

"  Now  hold ! "  Sir  William  stoutly  clashed.     "  Have  you 

naught  else  to  tell 
Than  that  stale  story  of  the  wrongs  we  Ve  learned  to  know 

so  well  ? 
Betwixt  us  and  the  setting  sun  your  tribes  have  room  to 

dweU." 

She  strained  the  deer-skin  round  her  form  with  a  right 

regal  mien, 
As  though   it  were  a  purple   robe  and  she  a  crowned 

Queen, 
And  stepped  before  the  dais,  and  spake  with  accent  bold 

and  keen :  — 

"  Yea,  room  enough :  then  wherefore  wrest  our  lands,  as 

ye  have  done, 
And  sow  with  wheat  our  hunting-grounds,  and  level  one 

by  one 
Our  forests  ?     Let  the  palerface  go,  and  seek  the  setting 

sun! 

"  Ye  basely  snared  and  slew  my  chief.     The  boy  I  lead 
to-day 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  75 

Is  but  the  broken  arrow-shaft,  whose  head  is  'wrenched 

away : 
I  would  his  arm  were  strong  enough  to  strike,  and  scalp, 

and  slay ! 

"  Yet  ye  —  ye  stoop  to  ask  my  aid  against  your  fiercer 

foes ; 
With  craven  lures  ye  bribe  my  braves  their  purpose  to 

disclose  : 
I  tell  you  that  my  warriors  wait  to  slay  the  first  who 

goes !  " 

She  faced  the  Council  with  a  scorn  too  stern  to  ask  re- 
dress ; 

Then  turned,  and  with  her  sullen  train  adown  the  hall 
did  press. 

"Good  lack!"  Sir  William  growled,  "I  vow  she  flaunts 
it  like  Queen  Bess  ! 

"  And  yet  without  her  tribe   to   aid,  I  'm   fain  to   use 

delay. 
And  watch  these  whooping   savages  make   inroads  day 

by  day. 
Whilst  I,  bereft  of  succor,  see  my  mastery  melt  away. 


76  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

"  I  've  held  for  more  than  thirty  years  the  royal  Gov- 
ernor's chair ; 

I  '11  hold  it  to  the  hloody  end,  as  here  and  now,  I  swear ! 

Out  on  it !  Shall  the  Lion  cower  before  the  skulking 
Bear?" 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  77 


DORRIS'  SPINNING. 

A.  D.  1740. 

She  sat  at  the  upper  chamber,  —  't  was  a  summer  of 

long  ago,  — 
And  looked  through  the  gable  window  at  the  river  that 

ran  below. 
And  over  the  quiet  pastures,  and  up  at  the  wide  blue  sky. 
And  envied  the  jay  his  freedom  as  he  lazily  flitted  by. 

Yet  patiently  at  her  spinning,  in  a  halo  of  happy  light. 
She  wrought,  though  a  shimmer  rippled  the  heads  of  the 

wheat  in  sight,  — 
Though   the   garden  was   spilling  over  its  cups  on  the 

fragrant  day. 
And  the  hollyhocks  at  the  doorway  had  never  looked 

half  so  gay. 

She  saw,  as  her  wheel  kept  whirling,  the  leisure  of  Na- 
ture, too,  — 
The  beautiful  holiday  weather  left  nothing  for  her  to  do : 


78  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

The  cattle  were  idly  grazing,  and  even  the  frisky  sheep, 
Away  in   the   distant    meadows,   lay   under   the   shade 
asleep. 

So  sitting,  she  heard  sweet  laughter,  and  a  bevy  of  maid- 
ens fair, 

With  babble  of  merry  voices,  came  climbing  the  chamber 
stair :  — 

"  O  Dorris  !  how  can  you  bear  it,  to  drone  at  your  spin- 
ning here  ? 

Why,  girl !  it 's  the  heart  of  summer,  the  goldenest  time 
of  year ! 

"  Put  out  of  your  hand  the  distaff,  this  wearisome  whirl 

relax,  — 
There  are  things  that  are  gayer,  Dorris,  than  sitting  and 

spinning  flax  : 
Come  with  us  away  to  the  forest ;  when  it  rains  is  the 

time  to  ply 
Such   tiresome  tasks  —  and   to-day  is  the  rarest  of   all 

July ! " 

With  a  face  that  was  softly  saddened,  sweet  Dorris 
looked  up  and  said. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  79 

As  she  ravelled  a  bit  of  tangle,  and  twisted  again  her 

thread :  — 
"  Nay,  nay,  I  must  do  my  spinning !  it  would  n't  be  kind 

or  right 
That  the  loom  should  be  kept  a-waiting ;  my  hanks  must 

be  done  to-night. 

"  Ay,   surely,   the  day  is  lovely  !     It  tugs  at  my  very 

heart 
To  look  at  its  drifting  beauty,  nor  share  in  its  joy  my 

part: 
I  may  not  go  forth  to  meet  it,  but  the  summer  is  kind, 

you  see, 
And  I  think,  as  I  sit  at  my  spinning  —  I  think  it  will 

come  to  me  ! " 


So  the  frolicsome  maidens  left  her,  with  something  of 

mild  surprise 
That  Dorris  should  choose  a  duty,  with  pleasure  before 

her  eyes ; 
Not  dreaming  that  when  her  mother  her  "dozens"  should 

count  up-stairs. 
And  kiss  her,  and  say,  "  My  darling  I "  her  day  would 

be  glad  as  theirs. 


80  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

So  she  minded  her  wheel,  and  blithely  she  sang  as  she 

twirled  it  round, 
And  cunningly  from  her  fingers  the  delicate  fibre  wound ; 
And  on  through  the  sunny  hours,  that  neither  were  sad 

nor  long, 
She  toiled,  in  her  sweet  obedience,  and  lightened  her  toil 

with  song ;  — 

\_She  sings.'] 
"  Come  hither,  happy  birds, 

With  warbling  woo  me, 
Till  songs  that  have  no  words 

Melt  through  and  through  me  ! 
Come,  bees,  that  drop  and  rise 

Within  the  clover. 
Where  yellow  butterflies 

Go  glancing  over  ! 
O  roses,  red  and  white, 

And  lilies,  shining 
Like  gilded  goblets  bright 

With  silver  lining,  — 
Each  to  my  window  send 

Gifts  worth  the  winning, 
To  cheer  me  as  I  bend 

Above  my  spinning ! 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  81 

"  O  ripples  on  the  sand, 

That  break  in  beauty  ; 
O  pines  that  stiffly  stand 

Like  guards  on  duty  ; 
Green  meadows,  where  this  morn 

The  scythes  were  mowing ; 
Soft  slopes,  where  o'er  the  corn 

The  wind  is  blowing  ; 
White  clouds  above  the  hill, 

That  sail  together ; 
Eich  summer  scents,  that  fill 

This  summer  weather,  — 
All  bring  the  sweets  you  've  found 

Since  morn's  beginning. 
And  come  and  crowd  them  round 

My  day  of  spinning  !  " 


82  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


FAST-DAY  SPORT. 

A.  D.  1648. 

"  Shame,  shame  upon  ye,  godless  lads, 

To  take  your  matchlocks  down, 
And  to  the  forest  hie  for  game, 

When  all  the  folk  in  town 
Were  gathered  in  the  meeting-house. 

In  Sabbath  garb  arrayed. 
To  fast  and  pray  this  solemn  day. 

As  Governor  Winthrop  bade  ! 

"  Ye  think,  perchance,  I  failed  to  mark 

Some  empty  places  there  : 
Nay,  nay,  I  do  my  duty,  lads. 

Though  ye  may  mock  and  stare. 
I  ween,  despite  your  many  smirks, 

When  all  is  said  and  done, 
Ye  '11  think  the  hare  ye  dangle  there 

Was  hardly  worth  the  fun. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  83 

"  I  Ve  copied  fair  your  names,  young  sirs, 

'  Trespass  —  one  shilling  nine '  — 
And  governor's  grandsons  though  ye  be, 

I  wot  ye  'U  pay  the  fine  ; 
It  should  be  doubled  for  the  sin 

Of  such  example  set ; 
I  'm  sorely  sad  a  Boston  lad 

So  strangely  could  forget. 

"  Ye  did  not  ?     Ha  !  the  bold  offence 

Was  a  deliberate  one  ? 
Ye  meant  to  scout  the  Fast-Day,  when 

Ye  went  with  dog  and  gun  ? 
Out  on  such  worldly  lawlessness  I 

Ye  well  deserve  to  be 
Left  in  the  lurch  with  King  and  Church 

In  Suffolk  by  the  sea  I 

"  It  ought  to  make  the  crimson  shame 

Your  braggart  faces  flood, 

When  ye  remember  that  your  veins 

Are  warm  with  Winthrop  blood ! 
Now  had  ye  been  Sir  Harry's  chicks, 
To  do  and  dare  with  such 


84  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

Pert  looks  as  send  my  hair  on  end, 
I  had  not  cared  so  much. 

"  But  Governor  Winthrop's  grandsons !     Heigh ! 

How  godless  folk  will  prate  : 
'  He  cannot  make  his  household  keep 
The  Fast-Day  of  the  state ! ' 
Nay,  do  I  hear  aright  ?     Ye  say 

He  gave  you  leave  to  go 
To-day  and  track  (alack  !  alack  !) 
The  rabbits  through  the  snow  ? 

**  Ye  look  so  roguish,  scarce  I  think 

Ye  mean  the  word  ye  spake  ; 
But  since  ye  've  dared  with  bold  affront 

The  righteous  law  to  break, 
Though  even  the  Governor's  self  forget 

His  bound  en  duty,  —  mine 
Is  clear :  Ye  11  pay  this  very  day 

Each  farthing  of  your  fine  I  '* 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  85 


GREENWAY  COURT. 

A.  D.  1748. 

Lord  Fairfax  sat  before  the  fire, 

Within  his  forest  hall, 
Where  antlers  wide  on  every  side 

Hung  branching  from  the  walL 

Around  the  casements  howled  the  wind. 

The  snow  was  falling  deep, 
And  at  his  feet,  crouched  in  the  heat. 

His  stag-hounds  lay  asleep. 

They  heard  a  horse's  hoofs  without, 

Above  the  wintry  roar, 
And  with  a  bay  they  sprang  away 

To  guard  the  opening  door  ; 

And  if  their  master  had  not  chid. 
With  instant  word  and  frown. 


86  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

They  quick  had  met  with  fierce  onset 
The  guest,  and  dragged  him  down. 

"  Shame !    Shame !   Prince  Charles !  "  Lord  Fairfax  cried ; 
"  Off,  Berkeley  !     With  such  sport, 
No  friend,  I  trow,  we  welcome  so 
Who  comes  to  Greenway  Court." 

He  eyed  the  stripling,  straight  and  tall ; 

He  marked  his  stalwart  frame  ; 
And  with  a  rare  and  knightly  air. 

He  questioned  of  his  name. 

"  Why,  you  are  hut  a  lad,"  he  said, 
"  And  wherefore  should  you  roam 
So  far  away,  this  wintry  day. 
From  all  the  sweets  of  home  ? 

"  At  Greenway  Court  I  dwell  alone, 
A  soured  and  saddened  man ; 
With  leave  to  find  far  from  my  kind 
Such  solace  as  I  can. 

"  But  you,  —  why  hreak  away  so  soon. 
And  all  youth's  joys  forego 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  81 

To  seek  the  work  a  man  might  shirk, 
And  miss  your  boyhood  so  ? 

"  Yes,  I  have  acres  without  count. 
That  needs  must  be  surveyed  ; 
But  what  can  you,  a  stripling,  do 
With  none  beside  to  aid  ?  " 

The  boy's  blue  eyes  shot  steel-like  clear ; 

And  from  his  forehead  fair, 
Fresh  with  the  sheen  of  scarce  sixteen, 

He  shook  his  Saxon  hair :  — 

"  I  am  a  widow's  son,"  he  said  — 

Proud  were  his  look  and  tone  — 
"  The  staff  and  stay,  I  dare  to  say, 

My  mother  calls  her  own. 

"  With  rod  and  chain  I  mean  to  walk 
The  wilds  without  a  dread  ; 
God's  care,  I  'm  sure,  wiU  keep  secure 
The  boy  who  wins  his  bread." 

"  Ay,  will  He  so  !  "  Lord  Fairfax  cried, 
"And  ere  my  days  are  done, 


88  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

God  wot,  I  '11  hear  some  word  of  cheer 
About  this  widow's  son. 

"  But  now  forget  your  rod  and  chain, 
For,  on  the  morrow  morn, 
We  '11  be  away  by  dawn  of  day, 
With  huntsman,  hound,  and  horn. 

"  What !     '  Know  no  woodcraft  ?    Never  brought 
A  pair  of  antlers  down  ?  ' 
Is  that  the  way  they  rear  to-day 
The  lads  within  the  town  ? 

"  As  sure  as  Shenandoah  flows 
In  front  of  Greenway  Court, 
I  promise  you  a  buck  or  two 
Shall  grace  your  maiden  sport" 


The  Christmas  hunt  was  o'er.     The  hearth 
Blazed  bright  with  knots  of  pine. 

And  host  and  guest,  with  whetted  zest, 
Before  it  supped  their  wine. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  89 

"  Right  merry  sport  we  've  had  to-day ; 
And  now,  if  any  bid 
Tell  who  "  (he  laughed)  "  taught  you  woodcraft, 
Why,  say,  '  Lord  Fairfax  did/  " 

He  called  a  huntsman :  "  Saddle  Duke, 

Without  a  moment's  loss. 
And  lift,  and  lay,  as  best  you  may. 

That  fattest  buck  across  ; 

"  And  straight  to  Alexandria  bear 
The  message  :    That  her  son 
Sends  his  first  sport  from  Greenway  Court 
To  Mistress  Washington"  ^ 

1  Thomas,  Lord  Fairfax,  after  a  love  disappointment  that  em- 
bittered his  life,  retired  to  his  boundless  acres  on  the  Shenandoah, 
and  there  bnilt  "  Greenway  Court,"  where  he  lived  in  rude  baronial 
style.  He  was  always  fond  of  saying  that  he  had  taught  George 
Washington,  when  a  lad,  to  hunt. 


90  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 


THE  BOYS'   REDOUBT. 
October,  A.  D.  1775. 

In  continental  Buff-and-Blue, 

With  lappets  richly  laced, 
Beneath  the  shade  the  elm-trees  made, 

A  martial  figure  paced. 

Along  the  sluggish  Charles's  banks 

He  bent  at  length  his  way, 
Just  as  the  gun,  at  set  of  sun. 

Went  booming  o'er  the  Bay. 

His  soul  was  racked  with  doubt  and  strife, 
Despondence  gloomed  his  eye ; 

He  needs  must  bear  his  weight  of  care 
Out  to  the  open  sky. 

The  breeze  that  flapped  his  soldier's  cloak, 
The  woods  so  broad  and  dim, 


COLONIAL  BALLADS,  91 

The  tides  whose  sway  no  bonds  could  stay, 
All  seemed  so  free  to  him ! 

Yet  the  young  nation  that  had  wrung, 

Beyond  the  angry  seas, 
From  savage  grace,  a  refuge-place, 

To  pray  as  they  might  please,  — 

Must  it  be  hounded  from  its  haunts  ? 

Be  fettered  at  the  stake  ? 
Be  forced  again  to  wear  the  chain 

It  risked  its  all  to  break  ? 

His  step  grew  heavier  with  the  thought, 

His  lips  less  firm  were  set : 
It  could  not  be  that  such  as  he 

Must  yield  !  —  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 

How  could  they  even  hope  to  win 

A  single  fight,  in  lack 
Of  everything,  while  England's  king 

Had  Europe  at  his  back  ? 

Thus  musing  sad  beside  the  Charles, 
He  saw  the  Cambridge  boys, 


92  COLONIAL  BALLADS, 

An  eager  band,  pile  up  the  sand 
With  roar  of  riot  noise. 

"  Ha  !  lads,  what  do  you  here  ?  "  he  said, 

Arrested  by  their  shout. 
"  What  do  we  here  ?     Why,  give  us  cheer  ; 

We  're  building  a  redoubt ! 

"  Who  knows  how  soon  Lord  Howe  may  come. 
And  all  his  lion  cubs. 
With  growls  and  snarls,  straight  up  the  Charles, 
In  his  old  British  tubs  ? 

"  And  creeping  from  them  in  the  dark. 
As  quiet  as  a  mouse. 
Now  what  if  they  should  snatch  away, 
Right  out  of  '  Vassal  House,'  ^ 

"  Our  new-made  chief ;  before  a  man 
Has  leave  to  fire  a  gun  ? 
That  ends  it !     For  there  '11  be  no  war 
Without  a  Washington ! 

^  Afterwards  "Craigie  House,"  —  so  long  the  residence  of  the 
poet  Longfellow,  and  at  the  period  of  this  ballad,  Washington's 
headquarters. 


COLONIAL  BALLADS.  93 

"  Our  fathers'  hands  are  filled  with  work  ; 
Besides,  they  're  grieving  still 
For  Warren,  and  the  gallant  band 
That  fell  at  Bunker  Hill. 

"  So  we  will  help  them  as  we  can : 
You  wear  the  Buff-and-Blue  ; 
Yet  we  aver,  we  're  ready,  sir. 
To  fight  as  well  as  you. 

"  May  be  you  're  on  the  General's  staff : 
Then  say  we  Cambridge  boys 
Will  yell  and  shout  from  our  redoubt 
With  such  a  savage  noise, 

"  That  all  the  vessels  in  the  Bay 
Will  hear  the  wild  uproar. 
And  swear  again  that  Prescott's  men 
Are  lining  all  the  shore !  " 

"  Brave  lads !  "  the  soldier  said,  and  raisied 

The  cap  that  hid  his  brow ; 
"  Some  day,  some  day,  I  '11  surely  pay 

The  debt  I  owe  you  now  ! 


94  COLONIAL  BALLADS. 

"  Your  high,  heroic,  mettled  hearts, 
Your  faith  that  wavers  not. 
To  me  are  more  than  cannon's  store. 
Or  tons  of  shell  and  shot. 

"  What  people  ever  fails  to  gain 
The  patriot's  dearest  prize. 
When  '  die  or  win  '  is  blazing  in 
The  very  children's  eyes  ? 

"  No  need  to  bear  the  General  word 
Of  tasks  so  rich  in  cheer  : 
He  makes  his  due  salute  to  you,  — 
You  see  the  General  here  !  " 


BALLAD  AND  OTHER  VERSE. 


THE  SILENT  TRYST. 

TO   M.   C.   L. 
I. 

Now  that  you  are  in  Florence,  go 
To  San  Lorenzo.     The  church,  you  know, 
Holds  Michael's  miracle  carved  in  stone,  — 
The  brooding  figure  that  under  the  shade 
Of  its  monk-like  cowl,  severe  and  lone, 
Watches  you  till  you  grow  afraid 

It  may  step  from  its  niche,  and  ask  you  why 
You  dare  intrude  with  a  curious  eye 

Thus  on  its  dusk  domain  of  thought. 

Study  the  mystery  there  inwrought ; 
For  the  realm  of  Art,  I  think,  will  fail 

To  show  you  a  greater.     Gaze  your  fill, 

Search  for  the  secret,  if  you  will, 


96  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

Until  you  have  gotten  behind  the  veil 
Of  the  palpable  marble.     None  the  less 
The  cunning  escapes ;  and  you  '11  confess 

That  what  is  the  wizardry  of  the  spell, 

Angelo's  self  alone  could  tell. 

II. 

But  other  than  this  is  the  reason  why 
I  point  you  to  San  Lorenzo.     Nigh 
To  its  moss-grown  court  is  a  cloister  wall : 

Enter  and  climb  its  stony  stair, 
And  the  guide  will  show  for  a  single  paul 

The  great  Laurentian  treasures.     There, 
Mid  luminous  missals  musk-enrolled, 
And  psalters  that  glisten  and  gleam  with  gold. 
And  manuscripts  crusted  with  such  gems 
As  smother  in  Eastern  diadems, 

Is  a  pair  of  portraits  I  bid  you  seek. 

In  a  vellum  tome,  shut  face  to  face  ; 
Laura,  the  lustre  on  her  cheek 

Like  a  Provence  rose,  in  its  fadeless  grace ; 
And  Petrarch,  fresh  as  he  walked  the  street 

That  morn  in  Avignon,  there  to  meet 
His  fate  in  the  thrall  of  the  random  glance 

That  held  him  a  captive  evermore. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  97 


in. 
What  matter,  the  lady  looked  askance, 

In  the  far  forgotten  days  of  yore. 
While  here,  through  the  ages,  hrow  to  brow, 
And  lip  to  lip,  as  you  see  them  now, 
These  lovers  in  dreaming  trance  have  lain  ? 

If  not  in  the  flesh,  one  clear  blue  vein 
Throbbed  to  his  touch,  —  if  he  did  not  dare 
Finger  a  strand  of  her  flossy  hair,  — 

How  time  hath  avenged  him !     Here  to  lie, 
While  over  the  world's  unquiet  life 
Swept  endless  trouble  and  change  and  strife ; 
To  lie  in  such  calm  —  his  cheek  close  pressed 

To  temples  whose  flush  can  never  die, 
Her  loosened  tresses  across  his  breast, 

That  shall  not  bleach  as  the  years  go  by  ! 

IV. 

I  wonder,  when  marvellous  Tuscan  nights 
Are  a-thriU  with  a  thousand-toned  delights, 
When  the  sensitive  silence  feels  the  bliss, 
As  the  sky  bends  over  the  earth  with  a  kiss, 
I  wonder  if  such  a  witchery  shed. 


98  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

Deepens  on  Laura's  cheek  the  red  ? 

I  wonder  if  then  a  whisper  stirs 
Those  century-muffled  lips  of  hers  ? 
Or  if  you  should  turn  to  the  pictured  face, 

Whether  a  start  would  show  its  trace, 
Just  as  it  will,  if  one  intrude, 

Surprising  a  lover's  solitude  ? 

V. 
Well  —  this  we  know :     She  has  need  no  more 
To  ask  the  question  she  asked  of  yore  — 
"  Art  thou  tired  of  loving  one,  Petrarch  ?  "     Nay, 
For  here  they  are  wedded  in  love  so  true, 
That  for  centuries  yet,  as  for  centuries  through. 
Not  even  its  shadow  shall  pass  away. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  99 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BELL-TOWER. 

"  Five  years  ago  I  vowed  to  Heaven  upon  my  falchion- 
blade 

To  build  the  tower ;  and  to  this  hour  my  vow  hath  not 
been  paid. 

"When  from  the  eagle's  nest  I  snatched  my  falcon- 
hearted  dove, 

And  in  my  breast  shaped  her  a  nest,  safe  and  warm- 
lined  with  love, 

"  Not  all  the  bells  in  Christendom,  if  rung  with  fervent 

might, 
That  happy  day  in  janglings  gay  had  told  my  joy  aright. 

"As  up  the  aisle  my  bride  I  led,  in  that  triumphant 
hour, 

I  ached  to  hear  some  wedding-cheer  clash  from  the  min- 
ster tower. 


100  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

"  Nor  chime  nor  tower  the  minster  had  ;  so  in  my  soul 

I  sware, 
Come  loss,  come  let,  that  I  would  set  church-bells  a-ring- 

ing  there 

"  Before  a  twelvemonth.    But  ye  know  what  forays  lamed 

the  land. 
How  seasons  went,  and  wealth  was  spent,  and  all  were 

weak  of  hand. 

"  And  then  the  yearly  harvest  failed  ('t  was  when  my  boy 

was  bom). 
But  could  I  build  while  vassals  filled  my  ears  with  cries 

for  corn  ? 

"  Thereafter  happed  the  heaviest  woe,  and  none  could 

help  or  save ; 
Nor  was  there  bell  to  toll  a  knell  above  my  Hertha's 

grave. 

"Ah,  had   I   held  my  vow  supreme  all   hinderance  to 

control, 
Maybe  these  woes  —  God  knows!     God  knows  1  —  had 

never  crushed  my  soul. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    V^RSE.  JlQl 

"  Even  now  ye  beg  that  I  give  o'er :   ye  say  the  scant 

supply 
Of  water  fails  in  lowland  vales,  and  mountain-springs  are 

dry. 

"  '  Here   be  the   quarried   stones '    (ye   grant),    *  skilled 

craftsmen  come  at  call ; 
But  with  no  more  of  water-store,  how  can  we  build  the 

wall  ? ' 

"  Nay,  listen  :  Last  year's  vintage  crowds  our  cellars,  tun 

on  tun : 
With  wealth  of  wine  for  yours  and  mine,  dare  the  work 

go  undone  ? 

"  Quick  !  bring  them  forth,  these  mighty  butts :  let  none 

be  elsewhere  sold ; 
And  I  will  pay  this  very  day  their  utmost  worth  in  gold, 

"  That  so  the  mortar  that  cements  each  stone  within  the 

shrine, 
For  her  dear  sake  whom  God  did  take,  may  all  be  mixed 

with  wine." 


102  BALLAD  4^^D   OTHER    VERSE. 

'T  was  thus  the  baron  built  his  tower ;  and,  as  the  story 

tells, 
A  fragrance  rare  bewitched  the  air  whene'er  they  rang 

the  bells. 

A  merrier  music  tinkled  down  when  harvest-days  were 
long: 

They  seemed  to  chime  at  vintage-time  a  catch  of  vintage- 
song; 

And  when  the  vats  were  foamed  with  must,  if  any  loitered 

near 
The  minster  tower  at  vesper  hour,  above  him  he  would 

hear 

Tinglings  as  of  subsiding  thrills,  athwart  the  purple  gloom, 
And  every  draught  of  air  he  quaffed,  would  taste  of  vine- 
yard bloom. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  103 


THE  LAKE  AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


I  KNOW  a  lake  among  the  hills, 

Serene  and  bright  and  full  and  free ; 

Unfed  by  any  mountain  rills, 
And  with  no  outlet  to  the  sea : 
And  yet  I  marvel  if  there  be 

Found  anywhere  through  all  the  land, 
So  gold  and  jewel-rimmed  a  cup 

As  Nature  with  her  Hebe  hand, 

Here  brims,  and,  kneeling,  offers  up. 

n. 
Its  molten  surface  gives  the  sky 

Its  softest  sapphire  beauty  back ; 
And  when  the  storm  comes  scudding  by. 

Dark  with  its  might  of  thunder-wrack, 

Although  its  blue  be  tinged  with  black, 
The  tempest  has  no  power  to  dash 

The  creamy  swell  against  the  shore, 


104  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

Nor  with  defiant  onset  lash 
The  ripple  to  a  sullen  roar. 

in. 
From  secret  sources  stowed  away 

Beneath  its  own  sweet  water,  flows 
The  unseen  strength  that  day  by  day, 

Keeps  it  in  such  supreme  repose 

As  never  shallow  current  shows. 
Its  edges  flash  with  tenderest  green 

That  lures  from  far  the  hungry  herds, 
And  midst  its  stooping  copse  are  seen 

The  nests  of  thousand  brooding  birds. 

IV. 

Oh,  for  a  nature  like  the  lake's 
Agleam  amid  our  summer  hills  ! 

That  gives  ungrudged  its  own,  nor  takes ; 
That  ever  keeps  its  calm,  and  stills 
Its  heart,  self-centred  even  when  ills 

Impend,  with  drift  of  tempest  foam 
That  wooes  the  weary,  and  above 

All  other,  weaves  a  nested  home 
For  every  wandering  wing  of  love  ! 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  105 


THE  ROYAL  ABBESS. 

In  the  abbey  stall,  with  his  vestments  old 
So  ravelled  and  rent  through  stress  of  time, 

The  haughty  Bishop,  St.  Ethelwood, 
Sat  waiting  the  vesper  chime. 

As  he  turned  the  page  of  his  service-book, 
Beside  him  he  heard  a  soft,  low  tread, 

And,  ceasing  his  Aves,  with  a  look 
Of  arrogant  scorn,  he  said  : 

"  Ah !  Edith  of  Wilton  !  So,  they  tell. 

Thou  hast  not  heeded  me  ;  knowest  thou 
My  staff  is  a  mace  that  can  compel 
The  stateliest  head  to  bow  ? 

"  I  have  bidden  thee  once,  and  now  again. 
As  thy  ghostly  father,  I  come  to  urge 
That,  putting  aside  thy  royal  train. 
Thou  clothe  thee  in  simple  serge. 


106  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

"  King  Edgar's  daughter  although  thou  be, 
I  charge  thee  remember  the  Church  allows 
No  choice  for  lofty  or  low  degree 
To  such  as  assume  her  vows. 

"  And  yet  in  thy  hair  the  diamond  glows, 
Thy  golden  cross  hath  a  chain  of  pearls  ; 
And  see !   at  thy  throat  a  fresh-blown  rose 
As  rare  as  a  gay  court-girl's. 

"  And,  under  thy  veil  of  costly  lace, 
Is  little,  I  ween,  of  penance  done  ; 
What  right  to  heighten  her  beauty's  grace 
Belongs  to  a  Wilton  nun  ? 

"  My  robe  with  its  reaved  and  ragged  fray, 
And  its  knotted  girdle  of  hempen  string, 
I  would  not  give  in  exchange  to-day 
For  the  ermine  that  clothes  the  King ! 

The  fair  young  Abbess  had  stood  before 
The  priest  as  he  spake,  with  lowly  guise  ; 

But  there  shone,  when  the  sharp  rebuke  was  o'er, 
A  fire  in  her  saintly  eyes. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  107 

"  God  gave  me  the  beauty  that  thou  dost  bid 
Me  cowardly  lessen,  or  meanly  dim ; 
Nay  !   rather  than  under  the  rough  serge  hid, 
I  keep  it  supreme  for  Him  I 

"  My  father,  the  King,  to  the  court  still  calls ; 
But  even  his  summons  have  not  sufficed 
To  lure  away  from  her  convent  walls 
The  virgin  espoused  to  Christ. 

"  And  I  for  my  holy  service'  sake, 

As  a  daughter  of  princes,  choose  that  He 
Who  winneth  me  from  the  world  should  take 
My  dowry  along  with  me. 

"  He  loved  the  lilies  ;  He  made  them  fair  ; 
And  sweet  as  the  sweetest  incense  flows 
The  stream  of  its  fragrance  when  I  wear 
For  Him,  on  my  heart,  a  rose. 

"  And,  Father,  I  doubt  not,  there  may  hide 
Beneath  the  tatters  thou  bidst  me  view. 
As  much  of  arrogance,  scorn,  and  pride 
As  ever  the  ermine  knew  I  " 


108  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


THE  BISHOP'S  EPITAPH. 

AT   MONTE   FIASCONE. 
I. 

Come  out  of  the  dim  old  church,  I  say, 

Dismal  with  dust,  and  chilly  cold, 

And  dank  with  hundreds  of  years  of  mould  ; 

Come  out  to  the  fresh,  crisp  morn  of  May, 

And  taste  how  the  odorous  breezes  take 

A  delicate  quality  from  the  Lake 

Of  Bolsena,  lying  yonder,  fair 

As  a  sapphire  setting  this  ancient  ring 

Of  golden,  Etruscan  hills,  that  fling 

Their  circles  around  us  everywhere  ; 

Then,  I  will  answer  your  questioning. 

n. 
—  You  never  have  heard  the  story  ?  —  know 
Nothing  about  this  Bishop,  who 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  109 

Here  has  been  sleeping  some  centuries  through, 

Under  yon  battered  tomb  —  nor  why 

His  marble  effigy  there  should  lie 

Flanked,  as  you  see,  by  flasks  instead 

0£  the  cross,  on  either  side  of  his  head. 

With  the  strange  inscription,  "  Est  —  Est  —  Est  / 

Legible  still  beneath  his  breast  ? 

m. 

Not  forsooth,  that  there  's  much  to  tell  — 

Only  I  Ve  read  the  chronicle 

Kept  in  the  convent  near,  —  and  learned 

The  curious  way  the  prelate  earned 

Such  symbols.     It  seems  this  Bishop  Johann, 

In  his  way  was  a  famous  sort  of  man ; 

Not  for  his  churchmanship  —  a  thing 

He  did  not  concern  himself  about ; 

Credo  and  Ave  and  Pater  no  doubt 

Coming  by  nature,  as  blue-birds  sing  ; 

Nor  for  his  aim-deeds  daily  wrought, 

Nor  for  his  holy  lessons  taught. 

Nor  for  his  virtues  great  or  small, 

Nor  for  his  saintly  life  at  all ; 

But  he  loved  one  thing  —  over,  above 


110  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

All  that  there  is  on  earth  to  love, 
—  Wine  that  was  fit  for  an  emperor ; 
And  that  was  all  he  was  famous  for ! 

IV. 

The  season  for  him  was  only  fine 

Just  as  it  ripened  the  laden  vine  ; 

The  flush  of  the  richest  sunset  skies 

Was  only  suggestive  of  the  dyes 

Of  his  favorite  clusters,  amber,  gold ; 

All  Nature  was  but  a  cup  to  hold 

The  mystic  mingling  of  sun  and  dew, 

That  fired  the  globules  through  and  through. 

He  knew  the  secret  of  every  cell  — 

Where  slowly  mellowed  the  mossy  casks  — 

And  not  on  his  rosary  could  he  tell 

His  beads,  as  he  told  the  cob  webbed  flasks  — 

Opened  on  such  and  such  Saint's  Day, 

And  fragrant  a  score  of  leagues  away. 

V. 

And  as  he  searched  in  other  lands 

For  the  oldest  and  richest  and  rarest  brands, 

It  happened  he  heard  of  wines  whose  fame 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  Ill 

He  never  had  even  known  by  name. 
He  summoned  his  steward  :  "  Go  "  —  he  said, 
'  And  wheresoever  you  chance  to  find 
Some  vintage  of  racier,  riper  kind, 
Then  secretly  chalk  on  the  barrel's  head 
Under  the  cobwebs  somewhere,  '  Est '  — 
Saying  no  word  of  purchase,  lest. 
Knowing  my  faultless  judgment,  thrice 
Its  worth  the  rogues  may  demand  in  price, 
When  I  send  to  fetch  the  casks  away,  —    * 
Which  even  a  Bishop  is  loath  to  pay." 

VI. 

From  many  a  vault  the  steward  drew 

Full  tankards  :  but  only  here  and  there. 

As  he  haunted  the  cellars  through  and  through. 

Did  he  find  a  cask  he  deemed  might  bear 

The  Bishop's  mark.     But  he  came,  one  night, 

To  Monte  Fiascone  —  the  height 

Covered  with  vineyards  yonder.     When 

He  had  finished  a  goblet  of  its  wine. 

He  secretly  chalked  the  covert  sign, 

And  gave  them  the  vessel  to  brim  again. 

And  draining  it,  wrote  the  second  word, 


112  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

And  gulping  once  more,  he  scored  the  third 
On  the  bearded  cask-head,  Est  —  Est  —  Est  / 
(The  Bishop  would  know)  Good  —  Better  —  Best ! 

vn. 
Behind  his  steward  three  days  or  more 
Followed  the  Bishop.     Eagerly 
He  came  to  Monte  Fiascone  — 
For  he  heard  on  the  way  that  its  wine  was  rare, 
Nor  paused  till  his  rein  was  slackened  there. 
He  sought  the  cellars ;  and  chuckled  o'er 
The  thrice  scored  word,  with  a  huge  delight ; 
He  tasted  and  tippled  all  the  day. 
He  drank  and  he  guzzled  all  the  night, 
Till  his  vital  power  was  worn  away  ; 
And  just  as  the  socket  spark  seemed  fled. 
He  lifted  a  feeble  hand  and  said 
To  the  monks  around  him,  "  A  purse  of  gold 
I  give  to  your  convent  here,  and  ask 
That  year  by  year  ye  will  spill  a  cask 
Of  your  gracious  wine  upon  my  grave  — 
That  so  it  may  trickle  down,  and  lave 
My  mouldering  body  ;  and  carve  above 
*    As  my  epitaph,  the  word  I  love 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  113 

For  its  fragrant  memories.  Est  —  Est  —  Est  /  ' 
Kind  brothers  you  have  my  last  request  1  " 

vin. 

I  've  answered  your  question.     Now  you  know 

What  sort  of  a  Bishop  sleeps  below, 

And  why  the  old  monks  fulfilled  their  task 

By  ca^rving  instead  of  a  cross,  a  flask 

Each  side  of  his  head  —  Do  you  need  to  ask  ? 


114  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


MAID  CICELY'S   STEEPLE  CAP. 

A.  D.  1480. 

I,  CONNING  my  missal,  o'erheard  to-day, 
At  matins,  the  Lady  Abbess  say 
That  Thomas  the  Friar,  who  hath  an  eye 
For  matters  that  go  in  the  reahn  awry, 
Like  Peter  the  Hermit,  comes  to  aid 
King  Edward  by  preaching  a  new  crusade. 
And  findeth  the  secret  of  all  mishaps 
Bomid  up  in  the  women's  steeple  caps  ! 

She  said  that  he  preached  in  London  Town, 
And  took  as  his  text,  "  Top  not  come  down  ; " 
—  Plain  language  as  ever  the  dear  Lord  spake  - 
And  he  vouched  if  the  women  failed  to  take 
These  spires  from  off  their  heads  and  tear 
The  kerchiefs  away  that  dangle  there, 
St.  Peter,  who  keepeth  the  golden  keys 
Of  heaven,  on  seeing  such  caps  as  these. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  115 

Would  shut  of  a  surety  the  door  and  cry, 
"  The  gateway  is  low,  and  the  coif  is  high  : 
Begone  with  the  beetling  badge  of  sin. 
Or  not  one  woman  shall  enter  in  !  " 

He  frightened  them  so  that  straight  they  tore 
Their  caps  right  off  on  the  abbey  floor, 
And  fired  them  there.     (I  dare  suppose 
The  fume  was  sweet  to  the  Friar's  nose  !) 

"  Maid  Cicely !  "  Quick  as  quick  could  be, 

I  turned  when  the  Abbess  spake  to  me  — 
"  Thou  wearest  a  steeple  cap,  I  ween. 

As  high  as  the  highest  that  I  have  seen  ; 

And  the  silken  veil  about  it  wound 

Trails  over  thy  kirtle  to  the  ground. 

Such  towers,  my  daughter,  proud  and  tall, 

May  tumble  as  did  Siloam's  wall : 

Take  heed  !     Thou  knowest  Saint  Luke  doth  tell, 

How  on  the  eighteen,  that  tower  fell 

And  slew  them  "  — 

—  "  Gramercy,"  quoth  I  then, 
"  But  good  my  mother  —  they  all  were  men  ! 


116     BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

And  none  had  been  slain,  I  trow,  at  all, 
Had  only  the  tower  refused  to  fall !  " 

"  Yet  had  it  been  meant  that  thou  shouldst  be 
An  eU-breadth  higher  —  dost  thou  not  see 
That  God  would  have  made  thee  so  ?  "  —  "  Nay,  nay," 
I  answered  sharp,  "  that 's  not  God's  way  : 
Whatever  we  can  —  't  is,  certes,  true  — 
Accomplish,  He  leaveth  for  us  to  do. 

"  He  meant  that  the  monk  be  shaven  bare  ? 
Then  why  did  he  clothe  his  head  with  hair  ? 
—  He  meant  that  thy  nuns  should  shear  away 
Their  beautiful  locks  ?  —  Then,  wherefore,  pray 
Did  he  make  them  grow  ?  —  So,  mother  mine. 
Unless  thou  provest  by  word  and  line 
Of  missal,  or  even  Evangelist, 
That  Scripture  hath  banned  it,  I  will  twist 
The  kerchief  about  my  steeple  cap  ; 
And  the  monk  shall  know  that  it  takes  a  rap 
Of  something  more  than  a  shaven  crown 
To  tumble  a  maiden's  top-knot  down !  " 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  117 


THE  WANDERER'S  BELL. 

The  Baron's  daughter  would  ride  abroad, 
Though  skies  grew  fleecy,  as  waned  the  day ; 

But  what  did  she  care  for  the  thickening  air. 
When  she  thought  of  her  villagers  far  away  ? 

They  needed  the  healing  draught  her  hand 
Was  pledged  to  carry  ere  set  of  sun : 

And  she  would  be  back  on  the  homeward  track 
Before  she  should  see  the  storm  begun. 

"  I  never  could  lose  myself,"  she  said ; 

"Or  if  I  should  chance  astray  to  roam, 
My  Balther  would  know  through  swaths  of  snow 

The  safest  and  surest  pathway  home." 

So  she  flung  the  rein  on  her  palfrey's  neck. 
And  hummed  in  his  ear  her  chirrup-tune. 

And  cantered  amain  across  the  plain. 
Nor  heeded  the  gray  of  the  afternoon. 


118  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

But  when,  with  her  sacred  mission  done 

(For  they  held  her  long  with  their  tales  of  woe), 

She  mounted,  the  wold  was  white  and  cold. 
And  the  path  was  hidden  by  swirls  of  snow. 

The  pines  stretched  dusky  and  dim  before, 
And  madly  aloft  their  great  arms  tossed ; 

But  she  chirruped  her  cheer  without  a  fear 
That  Balther  could  be  misled  or  lost. 

Yet  wilder  and  fiercer  roared  the  blast, 
And  blindingly  beat  in  Gerta's  face. 

Until  she  was  fain  in  Balther's  mane 
To  cover  her  mouth  for  breathing-space. 

Still  into  the  forest's  sheeted  maze, 
As  trackless  now  as  the  surge  of  seas. 

Plunged  Balther,  although  the  wreaths  of  snow 
At  each  step  buried  him  to  the  knees. 

Far  into  the  night  they  struggled  on, 

TiU,  breathless  and  spent  and  sore  afraid, 

With  her  rein  loose  flung,  fast  Gerta  clung 
To  the  neck  of  her  panting  steed,  and  prayed : 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  119 

"  Oh,  save  me,  Father,  for  Christ's  dear  sake  !  " 
And  scarce  had  she  uttered  aloud  the  word 
When  she  felt  that  an  ear  was  pricked  to  hear 
Some  sound  that  her  own  not  yet  had  heard. 

With  a  forward  bound  through  the  swamping  drifts 
Sprang  Balther.     Who  Gerta's  joy  could  tell 

As  she  caught  through  the  white,  blind  rifts  of  night 
The  distant  peal  of  a  chapel-bell  ? 

The  good  Knight  Waldemar  vowed  a  vow, 
For  his  daughter  rescued,  that  nevermore 

Should  any  who  crossed  the  wold  be  lost 
For  lack  of  a  guide  to  the  convent-door. 

And  that  is  the  reason  that  when  the  hand 
Of  the  clock  in  the  tower  at  ten  appears, 

The  bell  on  yon  height  rings  every  night, 

And  has  done  it  for  over  three  hundred  years. 


120  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


BEFORE  DEATH. 

I. 
How  much  would  I  care  for  it,  could  I  know, 
That  when  I  am  under  the  grass  or  snow, 
The  ravelled  garment  of  life's  brief  day 
Folded,  and  quietly  laid  away  ; 
The  spirit  let  loose  from  mortal  bars, 
And  somewhere  away  among  the  stars  : 
How  much  do  you  think  it  would  matter  then 
What  praise  was  lavished  upon  me,  when. 
Whatever  might  be  its  stint  or  store, 
It  neither  could  help  nor  harm  me  more  ? 

II. 

If  midst  of  my  toil,  they  had  but  thought 
To  stretch  a  finger,  I  would  have  caught 
Gladly  such  aid,  to  bear  me  through 
Some  bitter  duty  I  had  to  do  : 
And  when  it  was  done,  had  I  but  heard 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  121 

One  breath  of  applause,  one  cheering  word  — 
One  cry  of  "  Courage  I "  amid  the  strife, 
So  weighted  for  me,  with  death  or  life  — 
How  would  it  have  nerved  my  soul  to  strain 
Through  the  whirl  of  the  coming  surge  again  ! 

III. 

What  use  for  the  rope,  if  it  be  not  flung 

Till  the  swimmer's  grasp  to  the  rock  has  clung  ? 

What  help  in  a  comrade's  bugle-blast 

When  the  peril  of  Alpine  heights  is  past  ? 

What  need  that  the  spurring  pgean  roll 

When  the  runner  is  safe  beyond  the  goal  ? 

What  worth  is  eulogy's  blandest  breath 

When  whispered  in  ears  that  are  hushed  in  death  ? 

No  !  no !  if  you  have  but  a  word  of  cheer. 

Speak  it,  while  I  am  ahve  to  hear ! 


122  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


A  NOVEMBER  NOCTURNE. 

The  autumn  air  sweeps  faint  and  chill 
Across  the  maple-crested  hill ; 

And  on  my  ear 

Falls,  tingling  clear, 
A  strange,  mysterious,  woodland  thrill. 

From  utmost  twig,  from  scarlet  crown 
Untouched  with  yet  a  tinct  of  brown, 

Reluctant,  slow, 

As  loath  to  go, 
The  loosened  leaves  come  wavering  down  ; 

And  not  a  hectic  trembler  there. 
In  its  decadence,  doomed  to  share 

The  fate  of  all,  — 

But  in  its  fall, 
Flings  something  sob-like,  on  the  air. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER   VERSE.  123 

No  drift  or  dream  of  passing  bell, 
Dying  afar  in  twilight  dell, 

Hath  any  heard, 

Whose  chimes  have  stirred 
More  yearning  pathos  of  farewell. 

A  silent  shiver,  as  of  pain, 

Goes  quivering  through  each  sapless  vein  ; 

And  there  are  moans. 

Whose  undertones 
Are  sad  as  midnight  autumn-rain. 

Ah,  if  without  its  dirge-like  sigh, 
No  lightest-clinging  leaf  can  die,  — 

Let  him  who  saith 

Decay  and  death 
Should  bring  no  heart-break,  tell  me  why. 

Each  graveyard  gives  the  answer  :  There 
I  read  Resurgam  everywhere : 

—  So  easy  said 

Above  the  dead  — 
So  weak  to  anodyne  despair  ! 


124  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 


AUTUMN  LOVE. 
A  wife's  letter. 

Dear  Heart !     You  ask  if  time  has  changed 

The  love  of  long  ago  ; 
If  summer's  flush  of  love  is  past  — 

The  love  we  cherished  so  ; 
Because  with  hand  in  hand  we  walk 

Together  in  the  snow. 

We  cannot  turn  life's  seasons  back, 

However  much  we  grieve 
That  summer's  solstice  days  are  gone  — 

We  cannot  once  deceive 
These  hearts,  so  versed  in  love's  true  lore, 

With  any  make-believe. 

And  now  October's  deepening  glint 

Goldens  the  season  o'er  ; 
The  perfect  fruit  is  on  the  stem. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  125 

The  kernel  at  the  core  ; 
We  've  gathered  in  our  harvest-graith, 
What  can  we  wish  for  more  ? 

The  roses  pearled  with  fancy's  dew 

No  longer  meet  our  glance  ; 
The  lily  stalks  of  sentiment 

We  look  at  half-askance, 
And  smile,  perhaps,  to  think  they  once 

Were  fragrant  with  romance. 

Content  us  so  !     We  own  the  change  ; 

We  know  the  splendid  hours 
Have  gone  with  all  their  drifts  of  cloud 

And  gusts  of  rainbow  showers  ; 
And  love  has  had  its  summer-time 

For  these  twain  hearts  of  ours. 

And  yet  love's  lucid  atmosphere 

Hath  known  no  clearer  shine  : 
The  birds  that  linger  never  sang 

With  trills  —  if  few  —  so  fine  ; 
The  starlight,  as  we  walk  beneath, 

Seemed  never  more  divine. 


126  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

And  as  my  heart  in  curtained  hush 
Sits  wrapped  in  dreamy  bliss 

Beside  our  Lares-fire,  and  feels 

The  warmth  of  clasp  and  kiss  — 

I  wonder  if  our  summer  love 
Were  half  so  sweet  as  this  ! 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  127 


THE   FLEMISH  BELLS. 

[The  bells  cast  by  the  famous  moulder,  Van  den  Gheyn,  of  Lou- 
vain,  are  said  now  to  have  lost  all  the  sweetness  which  they  had  a 
hundred  years  ago.] 

Sadly  he  shook  his  frosted  head, 
Listening  and  leaning  on  his  cane  ; 
"  Nay  —  I  am  like  the  bells,"  he  said. 
Cast  by  the  moulder  of  Louvain. 

"  Often  you  Ve  read  of  their  mystic  powers, 
Floating  o'er  Flanders'  dull  lagoons ; 
How  they  would  hold  the  lazy  hours 
Meshed  in  a  net  of  golden  tunes. 

"  Never  such  bells  as  those  were  heard 
Echoing  over  the  sluggish  tide  ; 
Now  like  a  storm  crash  —  now  like  a  bird, 
Flinging  their  carillons  far  and  wide. 


128     BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

"  There  in  Louvain  they  swing  to-day, 

Up  in  the  turrets  where  long  they  Ve  swung  ; 
But  the  rare  cunning  of  yore  they  say, 

Somehow  has  dropped  from  the  brazen  tongue. 

"  Over  them  shines  the  same  pale  sky, 
Under  them  stretch  the  same  lagoons  ; 
Out  from  the  belfries,  bird-like  fly, 
As  from  a  nest,  the  same  sweet  tunes : 

"  Ever  the  same  —  and  yet  we  know 

None  are  entranced,  these  later  times. 
Just  as  the  listeners  long  ago 

Were,  with  the  wonder  of  their  chimes. 

"  Something  elusive  as  viewless  air, 
Something  we  cannot  understand. 
Strangely  has  vanished  out  of  the  rare 
Skill  of  the  moulder's  master-hand. 

"So  —  when  you  plead  that  life  is  still 
Full,  as  of  old,  with  tingling  joy  — 
That  I  may  hear  its  music  thrill, 
Just  as  I  heard  it  when  a  boy ; 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  129 

"  All  I  can  say  is  —  Youth  has  passed  — 
Master  of  magic  falls  and  swells  — 
Bearing  away  the  cunning  cast 
Into  the  moulding  of  the  bells  !  " 


130  BALLAD  AND  OTHER    VERSE, 


NUNC  DIMITTIS. 

What  a  good  world  and  fair, 
And  excellently  lovely  !     If  there  be 
Among  the  myriad  spheres  of  upper  air, 
One  yet  more  beautiful,  some  other  where, 
It  matters  not  to  me. 

What  can  I  crave  of  good 
That  here  I  find  not  ?     Nature's  stores  are  spread 
Abroad  with  such  profusion,  that  I  would 
Not  have  one  glory  added,  if  I  could. 

Beneath  or  overhead. 

And  I  have  loved  right  well 
The  world  God  gave  us  to  be  happy  in  ; 
A  world  —  may  be  —  without  a  parallel 
Below  that  Heaven  of  Heavens,  where  doth  not  dwell 

The  discontent  of  sin. 

And  yet  though  I  behold 
Its  matchless  splendors  stretched  on  every  side,  — 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  131 

Its  sapphire  seas,  its  hills,  its  sunset  gold, 
Its  leafage,  fresh  as  Eden's  was  of  old,  '— 
I  am  not  satisfied. 

Dark,  blurring  shadows  fall 
On  everything ;  a  strange  confusion  reigns  ; 
The  whole  creation  travaileth,  and,  through  all, 
I  hear  the  same  sad  murmur  that  Saint  Paul 

Heard,  sitting  in  his  chains. 

Where'er  I  look  abroad. 
What  blight  I  see !     What  pain,  and  sin,  and  woe  1 
What  taint  of  death  beneath  the  greenest  sod  ! 
Until  I  shudder,  questioning  how  God 

Can  bear  to  have  it  so ! 

I  marvel  that  His  love 
Is  not  out-worn  ;  I  wonder  that  He  hath 
A  plenitude  of  patience,  so  above 
Finite  conception,  that  it  still  can  prove 

A  stay  upon  His  wrath. 

And  then,  —  because  I  tire 
Of  self,  and  of  this  poor  humanity,  — 


132  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

Because  I  grovel  where  I  should  aspire, 
And  wail  my  thwarted  hope  and  balked  desire, 
With  such  small  faith  to  see, 

That  yet,  o'er  all  this  ill, 
God's  final  good  shall  triumph,  when  the  sum 
Is  reckoned  up  ;  that  even,  if  I  will, 
I,  at  the  least,  in  mine  own  bosom  still 
May  see  His  kingdom  come,  — 

Because  of  this,  I  say, 
I  pine  for  that  pure  realm  where  turmoils  cease. 
Sighing  (more  tired  of  them  than  day  by  day 
Heart-broken  after  Heaven  !)  "  Lord,  let,  I  pray  y 
Thy  servant  go  in  peace  ! '' 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER   VERSE.  133 


THE  FAIRIES'   TABLE-CLOTH. 

Here  is  the  fairies'  table,  vined 

Over  with  lichened  buhl-work  bright : 

Here  is  the  cloth  they  left  behind 
After  their  feast  was  done  last  night. 

Neyer  such  napery  met  my  eyes  ; 

Never  such  cobweb  woof  I  've  found, 
Dotted  with  dew-drops  damask-wise, 

Bordered  with  seed-pearl  all  around. 

Service  of  creamiest  lily  ware, 

Spoons  of  gold  from  the  tulip's  heart ; 

Silver  Spergnes  of  callas  rare, 

Napkins  fringed  by  the  gentian's  art. 

Wine  from  the  spice-wood's  vintage  poured, 
Out  of  the  bubble's  Venice  glass  ; 

Bread  from  the  pollen  of  wild-peas  stored ; 
Gates  from  the  buds  of  sassafras. 


134  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

Meats  from  the  hazels  ;  sweets  and  sours, 
Fashioned  alone  for  fairy  lips, 

Out  of  the  cores  of  pungent  flowers. 
Out  of  the  purple  haws  and  hips. 

Fruits  from  the  winter-green,  alder,  grape ; 

Barberries  red  with  ruby  glows ; 
Wildings  of  elfin  size  and  shape, 

Folded  in  leaves  of  brier-rose. 

Satiny  toad-stools  ranged  as  chairs  ; 

Moon  mid-sky  for  a  chandelier ; 
Crickets  and  tree-frogs  droning  airs. 

Up  in  the  green  orchestra  near. 

Ah,  what  a  supper  it  must  have  been  ! 

Bountiful,  zested,  racy,  rare  ; 
Ah,  ]f  I  only  had  fairy  kin  ! 

Ah,  if  I  only  had  been  there ! 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  135 


THE  KISS  OF  WORSHIP. 

I. 

They  tell  us  of  a  race 

In  far-off  lands, 
Who,  in  old  pagan  days, 

Would  kiss  their  hands 
And  fling  upon  the  air 

Their  homage,  so 
That  round  them  everywhere 

The  gods  might  know 
How,  in  the  symbols  spread 

Before  their  eyes, 
Beneath  and  overhead, 

In  seas  and  skies  ; 
Behind  each  natural  law 

They  felt  the  sign, 
And,  owned  in  all  they  saw 

The  touch  divine. 


136  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

And,  lest  through  oversight, 

Some  power  should  miss 
The  reverence  deemed  his  right, 

They  flung  their  kiss 
Of  worship  on  the  wind, 

Thus  to  be  blown 
Where'er  its  wings  could  find 

For  gods  a  throne. 

II. 

We  of  a  later  race, 

Who  walk  on  heights 
That  front  the  dwelling-place 

Of  Him  who  lights 
With  floods  of  radiancy 

Our  paths,  each  one,  — 
Till,  like  the  angel,  we 

Stand  in  the  sun,  — 
Do  we,  with  lifted  hands 

And  loyal  mouth. 
Thus  over  seas  and  lands  — 

East,  west,  north,  south  — 
Fling  worship  on  the  track 

Of  winds  abroad, 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  137 

Till  all  around  comes  back 

The  echo  ''God*'? 
And  lest  we  chance  to  fail 

In  fuU  acclaim 
Of  attributes  that  veil 

The  holiest  Name ; 
Do  we  send  Love,  whose  wing 

No  space  debars, 
Beyond  the  luminous  ring 

Of  outmost  stars, 
To  drop  with  breathless  bliss 

Of  homage  sweet 
Faith's  wide-flung,  rapturous  kiss 

About  His  feet  ? 


138  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 


AT  LAST. 

Written  by  request  for  the  Ovation  held  in  honor  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe,  in  the  New  York  Academy  of  Music. 

If  he  were  here  to-night  —  the  strange  rare  poet, 
Whose  sphinx-like  face  no  jestings  could  beguile  — 

To  meet  the  award  at  last,  and  feel  and  know  it 
Securely  his  —  how  grand  would  be  his  smile  ! 

How  would  the  waves  of  wordless  grief,  that  over 
His  haughty  soul  had  swept  through  surging  years, 

Sink  to  a  mystic  calm,  till  he  would  cover 
His  proud  pale  face  to  hide  the  happy  tears  ! 

Who  knows  the  secret  of  that  strange  existence  — 
That  world  within  a  world  — how  far,  how  near ; 

Like  thought  for  closeness,  like  a  star  for  distance  — 
Who  knows  ?     The  conscious  essence  may  be  here. 

If  from  its  viewless  bounds  the  soul  has  power 
To  free  itself  for  some  ethereal  flight, 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  139 

How  strange  to  think  the  compensating  hour 
For  all  the  tragic  past,  may  be  to-night ! 

To  feel  that,  where  the  galling  scoffs  and  curses 

Of  Fate  fell  heaviest  on  his  blasted  track. 
There,  Fame  herself  the  spite  of  Fate  reverses  — 

Might  almost  win  the  restless  spirit  back. 

Though  the  stern  Tuscan,  exiled,  desolated. 

Lies  mid  Ravenna's  marshes  far  away, 
At  Santa  Croce,  still  his  stone  is  feted, 

And  Florence  piles  her  violets  there  to-day ! 

Though  broken-hearted  the  sad  singer  perished, 
With  woe  outworn,  amid  the  convent's  gloom, 

Yet  how  pathetic  are  the  memories  cherished, 
When  Rome  keeps  Tasso's  birthday  at  his  tomb  ! 

So,  though  our  poet  sank  beneath  life's  burden, 
Benumbed  and  reckless  through  the  crush  of  fate  ; 

And  though,  as  comes  so  oft,  the  yearned-for  guerdon, 
No  longer  yearned  for,  since  it  comes  too  late  : 


140  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

He  is  avenged  tonight !     No  blur  is  shrouding 
The  flame  his  genius  feeds  :  the  wise,  and  brave, 

And  good,  and  young,  and  beautiful  are  crowding 
Around,  to  scatter  heart's-ease  o'er  his  grave ! 

And  his  Virginia,  like  a  tender  mother 

Who  breathes  above  her  errant  boy  no  blame, 

Stoops  now  to  kiss  his  pallid  lips,  and  smother 
In  pride  her  sorrow,  as  she  names  his  name. 

—  Could  he  have  only  seen  in  vatic  vision 
The  gorgeous  pageant  present  to  our  eyes, 

His  soul  had  known  one  glimpse  of  joy  elysian ! 
—  Can  we  call  no  man  happy  till  he  dies  ? 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  141 


A  BELLE  OF  PR^NESTE. 

CASTELLANI   COLLECTION    OF   ANTIQUES. 
I. 

Here  is  her  toilet-case  —  a  crust 
O'er  it  of  greenest  classic  rust ; 
Still  with  the  delicate  twist  and  twine 
Visible  of  the  rare  design  ; 
Even  the  very  casket  where, 

Nearly  three  thousand  years  ago, 
One  who  was  young  and  fresh  and  fair  — 

Fair  as  the  fairest  that  you  know  — 
Hoarded  her  maiden  treasures.     See, 
Here  is  the  mirror  that  used  to  be 
Able  to  flash  with  silvery  grace 
Back  the  divinity  of  her  face  ; 
This  is  the  comb  —  its  carvings  yet 
Perfect  —  that  knotted  her  braids  of  jet ; 
There  's  the  cicada  for  her  brow ; 
Arrows  whose  points  are  blunted  now ; 

Coils  for  her  throat ;  an  unguent  pot 


142  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

(Proof  of  some  moulder's  wondrous  skill), 

Ivory  tablet  with  a  blot 
Showing  a  tint  of  the  carmine  still. 

n. 

This  was  her  necklace :  even  as  I 

Toy  with  its  links  of  threaded  gold, 
She  may  have  toyed,  with  pensive  sigh. 

Dropping  them  through  her  fingers,  while 
Hearing,  perhaps,  with  blushing  smile, 

Under  the  limes,  some  lover  bold 
Telling  a  tale  that 's  never  old. 
Here  is  the  fibula  that  lay 
Over  her  heart  for  many  a  day. 
Throbbing  what  time  that  lover  won 
Wreaths  when  Etruscan  games  were  done  ; 
Quivering  under  the  anguished  strain 
When  he  was  borne  from  battle,  slain ; 
Rising  and  falling  with  her  breath. 
Warming  with  life  or  chilled  with  death ! 

in. 
She  —  has  she  vanished  who  seems  so  near, 
Drawn  by  this  ancient  cista  here  ?  — 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  143 

Faded,  as  faded  those  sunset  dyes 
Into  the  infinite,  awful  skies  ? 
Passed,  as  the  wind  passed  over  the  grain 
Headed  to  ripeness  on  the  plain 
Girdling  Praeneste  ?     Did  she  so 
Perish,  these  centuried  years  ago. 
Leaving  this  only  trace,  whose  rust 
Even  may  mock  her  scattered  dust  ? 
Can  you  believe  this  streak  of  red 
Lives,  while  her  subtle  soul  is  dead  ? 
Do  the  cicada's  wings  infold 
Essence  her  spirit  could  not  hold  ? 
Dare  you  avouch  this  bronze  can  be 
Something  immortal  more  than  she  ? 

rv. 

Why  do  I  ask  ?     Somewhere,  somewhere, 

Shrouded  in  boundless  depths  of  air 

Nearer  than  we  conceive,  or  far 

Out  of  the  reach  of  sun  or  star. 

Vital  and  sentient,  mind,  heart,  will. 

Waits  this  belle  of  Praeneste  still. 

Conscious  as  when  in  the  flesh  below, 

Nearly  tliree  thousand  years  ago  — 

Waits  —  and  for  what  ?     Ah,  God  doth  know  ! 


144  BALLAD  AND  OTHER   VERSE. 


THE  LONGSHOREMAN'S  VIEW  OF  IT. 

What  did  he  do  ?     Oh,  nothing  much  ; 

Standing  upon  the  bluff  one  day, 
Suddenly,  ere  his  hand  could  clutch 

Even  his  dress,  the  boy,  I  say. 
Whom  he  was  watching,  as  he  threw 

Yonder  his  tackle  over  the  height, 
Toppled  headforemost  into  the  blue 

Wash  of  the  sea,  and  was  swept  from  sight. 

Yonder  just  where  the  breakers  chum 

Madly  their  crested  caps  to  snow. 
Where  you  can  see  the  shelving  turn 

Sharp  towards  the  jutting  crag  below  ; 
That 's  where  he  sank  :     No  faintest  chance 

Even  to  venture  a  hope  upon : 
Had  he  but  waited  for  one  brief  glance. 

He  would  have  known  it  —  the  boy  was  gone. 

Noble  ?     Yes  —  think  how  he  rushed  on  death. 
Sprang  to  the  spot  with  one  wild  leap, 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  145 

Plunged,  without  pausing  to  draw  a  breath, 

Into  the  jaws  of  the  boiling  deep. 
Right  where  the  breakers,  hurrying  fast 

Over  each  other  with  blinding  spray, 
Tumbled  and  scattered  in  surges  vast. 

Just  as  you  see  them  do  to-day. 

What  were  a  couple  of  lives  to  them  ? 

Little  as  yonder  swirling  chips,  — 
They  with  their  rush  no  might  can  stem. 

Ready  to  swallow  a  hundred  ships. 
Father  or  brother  ?     Nay,  not  he  ! 

Only  a  stranger,  some  one  said ; 
The  greater  the  pity,  it  seems  to  me, 

Being  no  other,  —  since  he  is  dead. 

Ah,  thank  Heaven  !  you  say,  that  still 

Heroes  like  this  among  our  clods 
Lift  and  exalt  our  nature  till 

Grandly  it  stretches  up  to  God's. 
Well,  I  am  one  of  the  common  brand, 

Such  as  may  everywhere  be  found : 
Yes,  —  the  example  may  thrill  the  land. 

But  —  can  it  help  the  man  who's  drowned  ? 


146  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 


THE  WINE-VAULTS  OF  BERGENSTEIN. 

A   GERMAN   LEGEND. 

Old  Heinrich  sat  at  the  hostel  door, 
And  counted  the  gains  of  the  market  o'er, 
That  never  had  seemed  so  small  before. 

"  How  Gretchen  will  scold  !  But  then  the  beer 
Has  heartened  me  up  with  its  kindly  cheer  :  — 
Boy,  bring  me  another  tankard  here  !  " 

The  tankard  was  drained,  and  he  homeward  went 
With  a  stagger  of  stolid,  dull  content. 
Though  Gretchen  should   know  that   his   gains  were 
spent. 

But  scarce  had  he  shambled  one  half  his  way, 
When,  as  it  was  nearing  the  close  of  day, 
A  voice  at  his  elbow  seemed  to  say,  — 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  147 

"  Ah  !  here  are  the  ruins  of  Bergenstein, 
So  famous,  't  was  said  in  the  days  lang  syne, 
For  vintages  of  a  wondrous  wine. 

"  For  such,  of  a  truth,  were  nowhere  known 

As  mellowed  beneath  the  piles  of  stone, 

In  tuns  with  their  cobwebbed  beards  o'ergrown. 

*^  The  lords  of  the  castle,  although  they  were 
Right  ancient  barons,  with  scutcheons  fau*, 
Held  shamefully  riotous  revels  there. 

"  They  drank  in  the  morning,  they  drank  at  night, 
They  wasted  their  lives  in  brawl  and  fight ; 
And  the  castle  it  crumbled,  as  well  it  might. 

"  Yet  steadily,  under  it  all,  the  vine 
Kept  bearing,  beneath  the  rain  and  shine  ; 
And  still  in  the  vaults  they  stored  the  wine. 

**  'Twas  over  two  hundred  years  ago 

When  all  that  I  tell  you  happened  so ; 

For  I  was  the  cooper  —  and  I  should  know. 


148  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

"  The  last  of  the  Bergen  knights  was  he 
Who  flung,  as  he  came  to  die,  the  key 
Of  the  vaults,  with  an  angry  glare  at  me, 

"  And  said,  — '  It  has  slain  us  one  by  one ; 

Go  turn  the  spigot  of  every  tun. 

And  let  the  wine  that  has  cursed  us  run.' 

"  I  flew  to  obey,  in  hottest  haste, 
But,  stopping  to  take  one  golden  taste, 
I  had  not  the  heart  to  see  the  waste  ; 

"  And,  lifting  my  eyes,  I  could  but  say,  — 
'  God  keep  his  perilous  gifts,  I  pray, 
Safe  till  the  Millennium !    When  that  day 

"  ^  Shall  dawn  on  a  world  new-made  again, 
Such  draughts  shall  be  harmless  unto  men 
Grown  like  to  the  angels,  but  —  not  till  then  ! ' 

"  My  prayer  had  its  answer,  —  year  by  year 

I  visit  the  vaults,  and  linger  near 

To  see  that  no  trace  of  the  tuns  appear. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  149 

"  And  as  soon  as  the  blossoms  scent  the  vine, 
The  crones  declare  't  is  a  certain  sign 
That  the  cooper  has  come  to  taste  his  wine. 

"  Poor  fool !  as  you  listen  to  what  I  Ve  told 
Of  the  tuns,  you  would  barter  a  bag  of  gold 
To  see  them,  and  stroke  their  beards  of  mould." 

"  And  toss  off  a  tankard,"  old  Heinrich  said, 
And  turned  him  about  and  rubbed  his  head. 
But  —  cooper,  and  castle,  and  all  had  fled  ! 

And  there  in  the  roadside  ditch  he  lay, 

And  puzzled  his  brains  till  break  of  day, 

And  wondered  what  Gretchen  would  have  to  say. 


150  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


PRITCHARD  THE  ENGINEER. 

I. 

Right  on  the  track  of  the  flying  train 

Lay  the  huge  bowlder.     Quick  as  thought, 
Grasping  the  throttle  with  a  strain 

Tightened  and  terrible,  Pritchard  caught 
Hold  of  the  brake-bar.     On  its  way, 

Crashing  to  headlong  ruin,  rushed 
Madly  the  engine,  till  it  lay 

Hurled  on  the  bowlder,  wrecked  and  crushed. 

II. 
Smitten  with  horror,  pale  with  fear, 

Hastened  the  anxious  crowd  to  see 
Whether  the  faithful  engineer 

(Braver  or  better  none  than  he) 
Breathed,  as  he  stood  there  with  his  face 

Grand  in  its  steadfast  purpose  set. 
Showing  the  ordeal's  awful  trace 

Stamped  on  the  rigid  features  yet. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  151 

III. 

What  did  they  find  ?     One  hand  a-strain, 

Grasping  the  throttle  with  a  clutch 
Closer  than  death's,  and  one  in  vain 

Clinching  the  hrake-valve  bar  with  such 
Spasm  of  grip  they  could  undo 

Only  with  wrench  of  strength  applied ; 
Seeing  the  bolt  that  pierced  him  through, 

Failed  to  unclasp  it  —  so  he  died  : 

IV. 

Died  at  his  post,  as  a  brave  man  should, 

Shirking  no  duty,  danger,  strife  ; 
True  to  his  trust,  although  it  would 

Cost  him  —  he  saw  it  so  —  his  life. 
These  are  the  heroes,  noblest  far,  — 

Men  who  can  meet  without  a  fear 
Death,  with  their  hands  upon  the  bar, 

Even  as  Pritchard  the  engineer ! 


152  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


COMPENSATION. 

Because  the  page  of  saint  and  sage 
Is  closed  before  your  burdened  eyes  ; 

Because  the  thought  by  genius  wrought 
Forbidden  to  your  vision  lies  ; 

Because  the  fine,  ecstatic  line 

The  poet  writes  is  shut  away  ; 
Because  you  glance  at  no  romance, 

Nor  sweep  the  world-news  of  the  day  ;  — 

Must  you  sit  by  with  murmurous  sigh, 
And  hopeless  sadness  in  your  looks  ; 

As  if  the  best  of  life's  true  zest 

Were  bound  within  the  realms  of  books  ? 

Lift  up,  I  pray,  this  golden  day, 
That  vision  which  the  classic  line 

Has  dimmed  with  pain  of  overstrain, 
And  own  there  's  something  more  divine 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  153 

Upon  the  broad  expanse  which  God 
Sets  clear  before  your  spirit's  reach, 

Freighted  with  more  exalted  lore 

Than  human  tongue  could  ever  teach. 

Your  pen  can  trace  no  faintest  grace 

Of  fancy  such  as  throbs  and  stirs 
In  living  light  along  the  bright 

Record  of  Nature's  characters. 

No  wisest  sage,  no  scholar's  page, 

No  secrets,  Science  may  descry, 
Can  teach  the  heart  a  thousandth  part 

As  much  as  God's  great,  open  sky. 

And  tell  me  where  are  poets  rare 
As  lyric  birds  that  thrill  and  throng 

The  solitudes  of  breezy  woods 
Just  for  the  very  love  of  song ! 

What  gay  romance  can  weave  a  dance 

As  airy  as  the  butterfly's  ? 
What  drama's  dream  can  ever  seem 

Tragic  as  that  in  human  eyes  ? 


154  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

God's  way  is  best.     If  He  has  pressed 
His  hand  above  your  eyelids  so, 

Be  sure,  therefore,  he  has  some  lore 
To  teach  you  that  you  do  not  know. 

Hold  the  dear  hand,  and  understand, 
While  covering  it  with  kisses  true, 

That  you  must  lay  all  else  away 

Till  you  have  heard  His  teachings  through. 

A  Father's  care  should  surely  wear 
No  semblance  even  of  love's  eclipse. 

If  down  he  lays  the  book  and  says, 

*'  Child,  learn  your  lesson  from  my  lips,'' 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  165 


ARAB   WIT. 

In  a  green  oasis  where  gurgling  ran 
The  sedge-choked  waters,  a  caravan 
Paused,  marching  to  Ispahan. 

And,  calm  as  the  Oman  when  the  roar 
Of  surging  breakers  along  its  shore 
Sinks  as  the  storm  is  o'er,  — 

On  his  Yemen  cloth  the  Emir  lay ; 
For  many  had  been  the  fearful  fray 
Since  thither  he  tracked  his  way. 

His  pitiless  hand  had  wide  and  far 
Traced,  with  the  sweep  of  his  scimitar, 
A  circle  of  scathe  and  scar. 

And  now,  with  his  works  of  vengeance  done, 
Tranquil  he  prayed  at  set  of  sun, 
"  Allah,  the  Faith  hath  won." 


156  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

"  Who  sayeth  it  ?  "  rang  a  fierce  demand  ; 
For,  scouring  o'er  the  soundless  sand, 
An  Arab  leaped,  close  at  hand. 

"  Pray,  how  hath  he  won  ?     By  thousands  slain, 

This  Emir,  whose  rule  is  scourge  and  bane  : 

No  Tigris  could  wash  his  stain !  " 

"  By  Allah  !  "  the  Emir  scowled,  —  his  brow 
Pallid  with  fury  —  "  knowest  thou 
That  Emir  am  I  ?     And  now 

"  Thy  life  for  thy  slander 's  cost !  " 

"Nay,  nay!'' 
The  Arab  laughed,  in  a  jeering  way ; 
"  Who  questions  thy  right,  I  pray  ? 

"  Thou  hast  told  thy  rank  —  hear  mi?ie  :  I  am 
Of  the  powerful  race  of  the  Yezidan, 
Whose  reason  is  cool  and  calm 

"  Save  at  full-moon  ;  and  then  some  blight  — 
Ha  !  ha !  —  makes  fools  of  us  all  outright ; 
And  —  the  moon  is  full  to-night !  " 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  157 

The  blade  slid  back  to  its  jewelled  head, 
As,  waving  his  hand,  the  Emir  said, 
"  Give  to  the  fool  some  bread." 


168  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 


CALLING  THE  ANGELS  IN. 

We  mean  to  do  it.     Some  day,  some  day, 
We  mean  to  slacken  this  fevered  rush 

That  is  wearing  our  very  souls  away  ; 
And  grant  to  our  hearts  a  hush 

That  is  only  enough  to  let  them  hear 

The  footsteps  of  angels  drawing  near. 

We  mean  to  do  it.     Oh,  never  doubt, 

When  the  burden  of  daytime  broil  is  o'er, 

We  '11  sit  and  muse  while  the  stars  come  out, 
As  the  patriarchs  sat  at  the  door 

Of  their  tents  with  a  heavenward-gazing  eye. 

To  watch  for  the  angels  passing  by. 

We  've  seen  them  afar  at  high  noontide, 

When  fiercely  the  world's  hot  flashings  beat ; 

Yet  never  have  bidden  them  turn  aside, 
And  tarry  in  converse  sweet ; 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  159 

Nor  prayed  them  to  hallow  the  cheer  we  spread, 
To  drink  of  our  wine  and  break  our  bread. 

We  promise  our  hearts  that  when  the  stress 
Of  the  life-work  reaches  the  longed-for  close, 

When  the  weight  that  we  groan  with  hinders  less, 
We  '11  welcome  such  calm  repose 

As  banishes  care's  disturbing  din, 

And  then  —  we  'U  call  the  angels  in. 

The  day  that  we  dreamed  of  comes  at  length. 

When,  tired  of  every  mocking  quest, 
And  broken  in  spirit  and  shorn  of  strength. 

We  drop  at  the  door  of  rest. 
And  wait  and  watch  as  the  day  wanes  on  — 
But  —  the  angels  we  meant  to  call,  are  gone  ! 


160  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


PERSEPHONE. 

Listen  !     What  a  sudden  rustle 

Fills  the  air ! 
All  the  birds  are  in  a  bustle 

Everywhere. 
Such  a  ceaseless  hum  and  twitter 

Overhead ! 
Such  a  flash  of  wings  that  glitter, 

Wide  outspread ! 
Far  away  I  hear  a  drumming  — 

Tap,  tap,  tap ! 
Can  the  woodpecker  be  coming 

After  sap  ? 
Butterflies  are  hovering  over 

(Swarms  on  swarms) 
Yonder  meadow-patch  of  clover, 

Like  snowstorms. 
Through  the  vibrant  air  a  tingle 

Buzzingly 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  161 

Throbs,  and  o'er  me  sails  a  single 

Bumble-bee. 
Lissome  swayings  make  the  willows 

One  bright  sheen, 
Which  the  breeze  puffs  out  in  billows 

Foamy  green. 
From  the  marshy  brook  that 's  smoking 

In  the  fog, 
I  can  catch  the  crool  and  croaking 

Of  a  frog. 
Dogwood-stars  the  slopes  are  studding, 

And  I  see 
Blooms  upon  the  purple-budding 

Judas-tree. 
Aspen-tassels  thick  are  dropping 

All  about. 
And  the  alder-leaves  are  cropping 

Broader  out ; 
Mouse-ear  tufts  the  hawthorn  sprinkle, 

Edged  with  rose ; 
The  dark  bed  of  periwinkle 

Fresher  grows. 
Up  and  down  are  midges  dancing 

On  the  grass ; 


162  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

How  their  gauzy  wings  are  glancing 

As  they  pass ! 
What  does  all  this  haste  and  hurry 

Mean,  I  pray  — 
All  this  ou^doo^  flush  and  flurry 

Seen  to-day  ? 
This  presaging  stir  and  humming, 

Chirp  and  cheer 
Mean  ?     It  means  that  Spring  is  coming : 

Spring  is  here ! 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  163 


THE  KEPT  PROMISE. 

In  the  Moslem  city  of  Khorassan, 
Adjudging  the  people  from  his  divan, 
Sat  Omar  the  pitiless,  haughty  Khan. 

He  had  sentenced  assassin,  knave,  and  thief, 
And  he  called  to  his  guard  with  order  brief : 
"  Now  bring  to  me  hither  the  Vizier  Chief, 

"  Who  dared  to  defy  my  bidding.     He 
Who  let  from  his  camp  my  foe  go  free. 
Because  he  had  shared  his  salt,  shall  see 

"  That  the  man  who  can  break  his  promise,  led 
By  a  fancied  duty,  nor  risk  instead 
Life  rather  than  do  it,  must  lose  his  head." 

The  Vizier  was  summoned.     With  hurried  words 

He  told  how  a  chief  of  the  hostile  Kurds, 

Who  seemed  but  a  shepherd  of  flocks  and  herds. 


164  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

Had  come  to  his  tent,  his  eyeballs  dim 
Through  hunger,  and  gaunt  in  every  limb ;  — 
"  What  could  I,  but  break  my  bread  with  him  ?  " 

The  face  of  the  Khan  grew  wroth ;  his  eye 
Flashed  fire  ;  he  deigned  but  curt  reply  : 
"  The  soldier  who  breaks  his  word  must  die  !  " 

No  pallor  the  Vizier's  cheek  o'erspread ; 

On  his  bosom  he  only  dropped  his  head : 

"  It  is  Fate,  —  it  is  Fate  !  "  he  grimly  said. 

"  I  am  ready,  O  master,  to  meet  the  worst. 
But  not  till  your  kindness  grants  me  first 
A  vessel  of  water  to  quench  my  thirst : 

"  Shall  the  scimitar  stay  till  I  drink  ?  "     Quick  o'er 
The  forehead  of  Omar,  so  harsh  before. 
Dawned  something  like  pity  :  "  Till  then  :  no  more !  " 

The  water  was  brought.     The  Vizier's  brow 
Shone  brighter  :  "  We  all  of  us  heard  you  vow, 
'Till  then.'     Your  promise  is  pledged  me  now  I  " 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  165 

Then  he  dashed  on  the  ground  the  goblet !     "So 
You  have  snared  me,  knave !  "  said  the  Khan.     "  But, 

no  — 
I  never  will  break  a  promise.     Go  ! " 


166  BALLAD  AND  OTHER    VERSE, 


A  TOUCH  OF  FROST. 

Only  a  word  it  was  —  a  word 

Freighted  with  sweetness  to  the  core, 

Even  for  both  of  them  spoken  and  heard 
Thousands  of  times  before. 

What  was  the  matter  with  it  now, 
That  it  should  seem  to  .throw  a  blight 

Over  the  flushing  cheek  and  brow, 
Turned  to  the  sudden  light  ? 

Was  not  the  innocent  word  the  same 
That,  in  her  days  of  bridal  bliss, 

Oft  he  had  wreathed  about  her  name, 
Crowning  it  with  a  kiss  ? 

Yet  what  a  difference  !     Crisp  and  curt, 
Piercing  the  sensitive  soul,  it  drew 

Blood  from  her  heartrlife,  till  the  hurt 
Harrowed  her  through  and  through. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  167 

He  —  did  he  mean  to  wound  her  so, 

Whom  he  had  loved  through  all  the  years, 

Letting  her  from  his  presence  go 
Blind  with  her  pent-up  tears  ? 

Never  !     Does  Nature  mean  to  kill 

Blossoms  she  cherishes  at  such  cost, 
When  o'er  her  dews  she  drops  a  chill 

Turning  them  all  to  frost  ? 

Can  she  be  conscious  that  on  some  night. 

Frostier,  keener,  and  colder  far 
Than  is  her  wont,  she  breathes  a  blight  ? 

No  —  but  the  roses  are  / 


168  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 


THE  FIRST  TE   DEUM. 

'T  WAS  Easter  night  in  Milan  ;  and  before 

The  altar  in  the  great  Basilica, 

St.  Ambrose  stood.     At  the  baptismal  font 

Kneeled  a  young  neophyte,  his  brow  still  wet 

With  the  symboHc  water,  and  near  by 

The  holy  Monica,  her  raised  eyes  strained, 

As  with  unearthly  ecstasy  she  breathed 

Her  Nunc  Dimittis,  Domine.     The  words 

Of  comfort  spoken  —  ^'  Be  sure  the  child  for  whom 

Thy  mother-heart  hath  poured  so  many  prayers 

Shall  not  be  lost  "  —  had  full  accomplishment, 

And  her  tired  heart  found  peace. 

St.  Ambrose  raised 
His  hands  to  heaven,  and  on  his  face  there  shone 
Such  light  as  glorified  the  Prophet's,  when 
An  angel  from  the  altar  bare  a  coal 
And  touched  his  lips.     With  solemn  step  and  slow, 
He  turned  to  meet  Augustine,  as  he  rose 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER   VERSE.  169 

Up  from  the  pavement ;  and  thereon  he  brake 
Forth  in  ascriptive  chant : 

"  We  praise  Thee,  God, 
And  we  acknowledge  Thee  to  be  the  Lord  1  " 
Augustine,  on  the  instant,  caught  the  tone 
Of  answering  exultation : 

"  All  the  earth 
Doth  worship  Thee,  the  Father  Everlasting !  " 
And  from  the  altar-rail  came  back  again 
The  antiphony : 

"  To  Thee  all  angels  cry 
Aloud,  the  heavens  and  all  the  powers  therein." 
And  from  the  font, 

"  To  Thee  the  cherubim 
And  seraphim  continually  do  cry, 
Oh,  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  Thou  Lord  God 
Of  Sabaoth  !     Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  all 
The  glory  of  Thy  Majesty !  " 

And  then. 
With  upward  gaze,  as  if  he  looked  upon 
The  infinite  multitude  about  the  throne, 
St.  Ambrose  uttered  with  triumphant  voice, 
"  The  glorious  company  of  the  Apostles  "  — 
"  Praise  Thee  "  —  burst  reverent  from  Augustine's  lips ; 


170  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

"  The  goodly  fellowship  of  all  the  Prophets  "  — 

"  Praise  Thee :  "  "  The  noble  army  of  the  Martyrs  "  — 

"Praise  Thee!" 

Thus  back  and  forth  responsive  rolled 
The  grand  antiphonal,  until  the  crowd 
That  kneeled  throughout  the  vast  Basilica, 
Rose  to  their  feet,  and  toward  the  altar  pressed, 
With  one  strong  impulse  drawn  !     The  breath  of  God 
Had  to  their  thought  inspired  these  mortal  tongues 
To  which  they  listened,  as  beneath  a  spell 
Vatic  and  wonderful. 

And  when  the  last 
Response  was  reached,  and  the  rapt  speakers  stood 
With  eyelids  closed,  as  those  who  had  seen  God, 
And  could  not  brook  at  once  a  mortal  face. 
Awestruck,  the  people  bowed  their  heads  and  wept. 
Then  uttered  with  acclaim,  one  long  —  Amen  / 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  171 


THE  CHRIST-CROTCH.! 

A.  D.  12—. 

A  child's  chkistmas  ballad. 

'T  WAS  the  time  of  the  old  Crusaders : 

And  back  with  his  broken  band 
The  Lord  of  a  Saxon  castle 

Had  come  from  the  Holy  Land. 

He  was  weary  of  wars  and  sieges, 

And  it  sickened  his  soul  to  roam 
So  far  from  his  wife  and  children, 

So  long  from  his  English  home. 

And  yet  with  a  noble  courage 

He  was  proud  for  the  Faith  to  fight ; 

For  he  carried  upon  his  shoulder 
The  sign  of  the  Red-Cross  Knight. 

^  Christ-Crotch  or  Christ-Cradle — the  old  Saxon  name  for  Mince- 
Pie. 


172  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

It  was  Christmas-Eve  at  the  castle, 
The  yule-log  burnt  in  the  hall, 

And  helmet  and  shield  and  banner 
Threw  shadows  upon  the  wall. 

And  the  Baron  was  telling  stories 
To  the  children  about  his  knees. 

Of  some  of  the  holy  places 
He  had  visited  over  seas. 

He  talked  of  the  watching  shepherds, 
Of  the  wonderful,  mystic  sights, 

Of  the  song  that  the  angels  chanted 
That  first  of  the  Christmas-Nights  : 

He  told  of  the  star  whose  shining 
Out-sparkled  the  brightest  gem. 

He  told  of  the  hallowed  cradle 
They  showed  him  at  Bethlehem. 

And  the  eyes  of  the  children  glistened 
To  think  that  a  rock  sufficed, 

With  nothing  but  straw  for  blankets, 
To  cradle  the  Baby-Christ. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  173 

"  Nay  !  quiet  your  sobbings,  sweetest," 

Right  gayly  the  Baron  cried  — 
"  For  nothing  but  smiles  must  greet  me, 

This  blessedest  Christmas-Tide. 

"  Come,  wife !     I  have  thought  of  a  cradle 
Which  thou,  with  the  skill  I  praise, 
Shalt  mould  with  thy  dainty  fingers, 
To  honor  this  day  of  days  ! 

"  So  lest  we  forget  the  manger, 
Choose  out  of  thy  platters  fair. 
The  one  that  is  largest,  deepest. 
And  line  it  with  deftest  care, 

"  With  flakes  of  the  richest  pastry, 
Wrought  cunningly  by  thy  hands. 
That  thus  it  may  bring  before  us 

The  thought  of  the  swaddling-bands. 

"  And  out  of  thy  well-stored  larder. 
Set  forth  of  thy  very  best : 
Is  aught  that  we  have  too  precious 
To  grant  to  this  Christmas  Guest  ? 


174     BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

"  Strew  meats  of  the  finest  shredding, 
(The  litter  was  chopped  in  the  stall ;) 
Let  butter  and  wine  and  honey 
Be  lavished  above  them  all. 

"  Let  raisins  and  figs  from  Smyrna 
That  draw  to  the  East  our  thought, 
With  Araby's  pungent  spices, 
Just  such   as  the  Magi  brought ; 

"  And  syrups  and  tincts  be  mingled 
With  fruits  from  the  Southern  sea, 
And  given  ungrudged ;  remember 
He  gave  of  his  best  for  thee  ! 

"  Then  over  the  noble  platter, 
A  cover  of  pastry  draw, 
A  star  in  its  midst,  as  a  token 
Of  that  which  the  Sages  saw. 

"  Christ's  Cradle  !  —  for  so  we  '11  call  it ; 
And  ever,  sweetheart,  I  pray, 
With  such  thou  wilt  make  us  merry 
At  dinner  each  Christmas-Day  !  " 


BALLAD  AND  OTHER    VERSE.  176 


THE  BEGGING  CUPID. 

A   PIECE    OF  SCULPTURE. 

I  WATCHED  as  they  stood  before  it,  — 

A  girl  with  a  face  as  fair 

As  any  among  the  raarbles, 

So  cold  in  their  whiteness  there ; 

And  a  youth  in  whose  glance,  entreaty 
Each  lineament  seemed  to  stir, 
She  only  had  eyes  for  the  sculpture ; 
He  only  had  eyes  for  her. 

And  poising  in  critic-fashion 

The  delicate  upturned  head, 

"  Was  ever  so  sweet  a  beggar  ?  " 

With  sudden  appeal,  she  said. 

"  Just  look  at  the  innocent  archness, 
The  simple  and  childish  grace, 


176     BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

Half  mirthful  and  half  pathetic, 
That  dimples  his  pleading  face. 

"  Who  ever  could  think  that  mischief 
Was  hidden  in  such  a  guise  ? 
Or  even  that  rosy  sorrows 
Lurk  in  those  lambent  eyes  ? 

"  Deny  him  f     Perhaps !   though  never 
With  hardness  or  scorn  or  blame  ; 
For  I  think  I  should  sob  with  pity, 
If  that  were  the  way  he  came." 

She  turned  as  she  spoke :  the  glamour 
Of  feeling  had  made  her  blind 
To  the  trick  of  the  stealthy  arrow 
The  Cupid  concealed  behind  : 

*•'  Ah,  ha  !  "  she  cried,  while  the  color 
Rubied  her  neck  of  snow  — 

"  You  plausible,  wheedling  beggar ! 
I  have  nothing  to  give  you,  —  Go  ! " 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  177 


HOW  HILDA'S  PRAYER  WAS  ANSWERED. 

AN   OLD   SAXON   BALLAD. 

"  On  him  who  conquers  in  the  lists 
All  who  therein  shall  ride  ; 
Or  high  or  low,  I  will  bestow 
My  daughter  as  his  bride." 

So  spake  the  Earl  with  suitors  vexed, 
Who  sought  fair  Hilda's  hand  ; 

To  whom  he  dare  no  choice  declare, 
Since  rapine  ruled  the  land. 

For  should  he  smile  on  Harold^s  hopes, 
Then  Bertric's  wrath  would  fall ; 

And  spear  and  lance  might  gleam  and  glance 
Around  his  castle  wall. 

And  should  he  frown  on  lesser  squires, 
Nor  grant  them  word  of  grace, 


178  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

Each  Saxon  churl  his  curse  would  hurl 
Against  his  name  and  race. 

So  Hilda  nursed  a  gnawing  grief 

Concealed  within  her  breast : 
For  well  she  knew  the  knight  so  true 

Who  long  had  loved  her  best  — 

Would  meet  that  rival  in  the  jousts 

Whose  arm  a  brand  could  fling 
(His  only  claim)  with  surest  aim 

Of  all  within  the  ring. 

"  The  prowest  spirit  of  them  all, 
May  fail  among  them  there,  — 
So  true  he  was  —  and  just  because 
This  carl  can  split  a  hair !  " 

"  Beseech  thee,  father  !  spare  thy  child ! 
I  plead  by  every  tear 
Of  anguish  shed  that  day  of  dread 
Above  my  mother's  bier." 

"  Peace !  peace  !  —  no  more !  My  word  is  passed  :  " 
'T  was  all  the  Earl  would  say  : 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  179 

So  forth  they  hied  from  far  and  wide 
Upon  the  tilting-day. 

Thrice  Harold's  daring  swept  the  ring, 

But  when  the  lists  were  done, 
A  blasting  blight  smote  Hilda's  sight  — 

For  Bertric's  lance  had  won  ! 

The  grim  Earl  held  his  promise  fast ; 

The  marriage-day  was  set ; 
And  Hilda,  pale  beneath  her  veil 

As  snow-swathed  violet  — 

Long  in  her  oratory  prayed, 

Low  bowed  in  bitter  gloom, 
That  Heaven,  even  now  —  she  knew  not  how  — 

Would  save  her  from  her  doom. 

"  The  bridegroom  chafes  "  —  her  maidens  urge, 
"  The  gay  procession  waits  ; 
Thy  palfrey  champs  the  bit,  and  stamps 
Impatient  at  the  gates." 

"  His  gift !  "  —  she  wept :    "  O  happy  hours  — 
So  free  —  so  far  away  ! 


180  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

What  cruelty,  that  this  should  be 
The  roan  I  ride  to-day !  " 

The  palfrey  pricked  his  silken  ear, 

And  shook  his  shining  mane, 
And  seemed  to  know  how  loath  to  go 

Was  she  who  drew  the  rein. 

And  when  the  distant  abbey  bell 

Rang  forth  the  wedding  peals. 
At  the  first  clang,  away  he  sprang 

As  Fate  were  at  his  heels. 

With  flashing  hoofs  that  spurned  the  ground 

Along  the  vale  he  flew, 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  ere  those  behind 

Bethought  them  what  to  do :  — 

Swept  past  the  abbey  —  down  the  slope  — 

Across  the  brawling  tide. 
And  skimmed  the  wold  whose  moorland  rolled 

Unhedged  on  every  side  — 

Nor  slackened  once  his  headlong  plunge 
Till  at  his  master's  hall. 


BALLAD  AND    OTHER    VERSE.  181 

He  heard  a  shout  he  knew,  rmg  out  — 
Then  saw  the  drawbridge  fall  — 

And  staggered  over.     From  his  neck 

Half  crazed  with  wild  alarms, 
The  shuddering  bride  was  caught  —  to  hide 

Her  swoon  in  Harold's  arms  ! 

He  bore  her  to  the  utmost  tower, 

And  thence  they  watched  the  race, 
As  in  keen  quest  each  wedding-guest 

Came  spurring  on  apace. 

The  fiery  Bertric  dashed  in  front  — 

Foam  frothing  from  the  flank 
Of  the  hot  steed,  urged  on  full  speed 

Against  the  moated  bank. 

As  rose  the  lifted  hoofs  in  air, 

The  maddened  creature  whirled ; 
And  down  the  steep  with  backward  leap, 

Rider  and  horse  were  hurled ! 


182     BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

And  when  on-coming  followers  sprang 

To  raise  the  fallen  head, 
With  strange  dismay  the  gallants  gay 

Saw  that  their  lord  was  dead  ! 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  183 


CAMBRIDGE   BELLS. 

O  Cambridge  bells,  toll  out  your  knells  ! 

O  listeners,  bow  the  reverent  head, 
While  tears  as  vain  as  April  rain 

Fall  for  your  dearest  poet  dead ! 

Weep,  childhood's  bands,  whose  happy  hands 
Wove,  as  it  were  but  yesterday. 

Wreaths  for  the  brow  too  pallid  now 
For  aught  but  an  immortal  bay. 

Ah  wailing  hearts,  whose  keenest  smarts 
His  spell  had  power  to  soften  o'er. 

Till  all  your  fears  dissolved  in  tears  :  — 
His  voice  can  comfort  you  no  more  ! 

Glad  homes,  so  bright  with  all  delight. 
Sing  low  his  songs  with  saddened  breath  : 

As  sweet  a  tongue  as  ever  sung 
Is  palsied  with  the  touch  of  death. 


184  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

Translucent  skies  on  which  his  «yes 

Were  wont  with  tranquil  gaze  to  rest,  — 

Beyond  your  blue  he  pierces  through 
The  Golden  Legend  of  the  west. 

Broad  meadows  where  the  grass  springs  fair, 
No  more  he  11  thread  your  winding  path, 

Nor  watch  the  wain  heaped  high  with  grain, 
Nor  loiter  'mid  the  Aftermath. 

O  land  whose  pride  he  was  !  beside 
His  grave  let  tears  the  tenderest  fall : 

Within  your  choir  is  hushed  the  lyre 
That  was  the  sweetest  of  them  all ! 


BALLAD  AND    OTHER    VERSE.  185 


THE  ROMAN  BOY'S  SHARE  IN  THE  TRIUMPH. 

A.  D.  61. 
WITH    A   PICTURE. 

"  I  HAVE  witnessed  the  great  Ovation, 

I  have  watched  as  they  slew  the  sheep ; 
As  they  marched  from  the  Campus  Martius 

Up  the  Capitolium's  steep  : 
I  was  proud  as  I  saw  my  father 

From  the  fiery  East  come  home, 
I  was  proud  as  I  looked  on  the  captives 

And  the  spoils  he  had  brought  to  Rome. 

"Ah,  Rome  is  a  grand  old  city. 

And  it  flushes  my  soul  with  joy, 
That  my  father  has  won  a  Triumph  — 

That  I  am  a  Roman  Boy  ! 
I  am  glad  of  the  glorious  conquests 

He  gained  on  the  far-off  shore, 


186  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

That  has  given  the  State  a  splendor 
It  scarcely  hath  known  before ! 

"  It  was  noble  to  see  the  captives, 

(Poor  fellows  !  I  think  they  wept !) 
Go  chained,  as  the  car  of  the  victor 

Behind  them  in  triumph  swept : 
Have  they  any  boys,  I  wonder, 

Like  Marcus  and  me,  at  home  ? 
Who  cares  ?     They  are  bold  plebeians, 

They  have  dared  to  fight  with  Rome ! 

"  But  now  that  the  march  is  over, 

Ho  !  comites,  come  and  see 
What  spoil  from  that  Eastern  country 

My  father  hath  brought  for  me ! 
Here  —  lean  from  the  wide  fenestra 

And  look  at  this  branching  bough  — 
Did  ever  you  see  together 

Such  birds  as  I  show  you  now  ? 

"  How  wise  they  are  looking  at  me ! 
Ha,  Claudius !  didst  thou  say 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  187 

Some  of  Minerva's  nestlings 

From  Athens  are  caught  away  ? 
They  are  angry  that  they  are  fettered  — 

See  !  each  of  them  frowns  and  scowls  — 
I  think  thou  art  right,  my  Claudius, 

I  think  they  're  Minerva's  owls. 

"  And  look  at  this  curious  trophy  — 

This  thing  that  they  call  a  fan, 
It  once  was  an  Indian  Satrap's 

In  far-away  Hindostan  — 
They  tell  me  it  grew  on  a  palm-tree 

In  its  Eastern  forest  home. 
As  lofty  —  my  father  said  it  — 

As  the  loftiest  tower  in  Rome. 

"  And  mark  what  a  shield  he  brought  me, 

Not  one  in  his  legions  bore 
A  trophy  of  greater  beauty, 

Or  one  that  hath  cost  him  more : 
For  his  own  good  sword  hath  won  it. 

And  *  Keep  it,'  he  said,  '  my  son. 
As  proof  of  a  deed  of  valor 

A  soldier  of  Rome  hath  done  ! ' 


188  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

"  I  will  keep  it :  and  when  my  girdle 

Gives  place  to  the  toga  —  then 
Right  brave  on  my  arm  I  '11  wear  it, 

When  I  fight,  as  a  man,  with  men. 
Oh,  ho  !  —  I  will  get  me  conquests, 

And  laden  with  spoils,  come  home. 
And  march,  as  to-day  my  father 

Has  marched  through  the  streets  of  Rome  I 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  seen  the  Ovation, 

And  the  slaughtering  of  the  sheep  — 
(I  wish  I  had  missed  the  seeing 

Those  poor,  chained  captives  weep  !)  -^ 
I  am  proud  of  my  foreign  trophies, 

I  am  proud  of  my  father's  joy  — 
And  over  all  else,  I  am  proudest 

That  I  am  a  Roman  Boy  !  " 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE,  189 


SAME-SICKNESS. 


1. 


My  mountains  curve  against  the  sky, 
A  line  of  beauty  pure  and  true, 
Beyond  what  English  Hogarth  drew  ; 

And  yet  I  watch  with  half  a  sigh 

Their  changing  lights,  and  wonder  why 
I  weary  of  their  depth  of  blue. 

2. 

No  greener  valley,  forest-walled, 

This  land  of  hill  and  dale  can  show  : 

Through  summer's  shine,  through  winter's  snow, 

Its  loveliness  has  never  palled 

Upon  the  senses  it  enthralled, 

Till  now  ;  —  and  now  it  tires  me  so ! 

3. 

What  rippling  river  ever  ran 

More  like  a  river  in  a  dream, 


190  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

Than  this,  whose  sliding  waters  gleam 
Beneath  the  bridge's  airy  span, 
As  silvery  as  waters  can  ? 

And  yet,  to-day,  how  dull  they  seem  ! 

4. 

The  sheen  of  window-panes,  that  catch 
The  glint,  recurrent  mornings  trace 
On  yonder  hillside  dwelling-place. 
So  irksome  grows,  I  'm  fain  to  snatch 
My  vision  from  the  square  bright  patch 
That  always  stares  me  in  the  face. 

5. 

And  yet  the  mountains  have  not  lost 

One  grace  out  of  their  splendid  line ; 
And  yet  the  valley  forests  shine 

More  brilliant  through  the  jewelled  frost ; 

And  yet  the  stream  has  never  tossed 

Back  flashes  that  were  more  divine. 

6. 

My  eye  is  just  as  clear  to  note 

Nature's  processions,  great  and  small ; 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  191 

These  oaks  whose  leaves  refuse  to  fall ; 
That  meadow  where  the  shadows  float : 
But  then  —  I  We  learned  the  scene  by  rote, 

And  spoiled  the  meaning  of  it  all. 


192  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 


HER  WEDDING-SONG. 

I. 

O  April  air  ! 

Blow  fresh  and  fair, 
And  banish  every  cloud  away, 

Nor  let  a  stain 

Of  mist  or  rain 
Obscure  her  perfect  Wedding-Day. 

n. 

O  violets  !  fling 

The  breath  of  spring 
With  lavish  waste  along  her  way  ; 

Roses  distil 

Your  sweets,  and  spill 
Their  rareness  round  her  Wedding-Day. 

ni. 
O  birds !  prolong 
Your  matin  song. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  193 

And  trill  your  gladdest  roundelay, 

As  if  ye,  too. 

Would  add  your  due 
Of  joy  to  grace  her  Wedding-Day. 

IV. 

O  tender  hearts ! 

Whose  loving  arts 
Must  let  no  quivering  tone  betray 

The  sob  beneath : 

Your  blessing  breathe, 
To  sanctify  her  Wedding-Day. 

V. 

O  mother !  come, 

With  lips  too  dumb 
To  utter  half  your  soul  would  say ; 

And  seal  her  bliss 

With  prayer  and  kiss  : 
The  holiest  of  her  Wedding-Day ! 

VI. 

O  father!  hold 
In  speechless  fold 


194  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

The  child  whom  now  you  give  away, 
With  tremulous  hreath, 
For  life,  for  death,  — 

On  this  her  solemn  Wedding-Day. 

VII. 

O  you  who  stand 
And  clasp  her  hand, 

And  vow  to  cherish  her  alway ! 
The  troth  you  bring 
With  plighted  ring, 

Shall  consecrate  her  Wedding-Day. 

vm. 

O  peace  of  God  ! 

Shed  aU  abroad 
Thy  benediction  now,  I  pray  ; 

That  she  may  own 

Thy  love  alone 
Can  crown  supreme  her  Wedding-Day. 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  196 


THE  ANGEL  UNAWARE. 

Abroad  on  the  landscape  pale  and  cold, 

Blurred  with  a  patter  of  autumn  rain, 
I  gazed,  and  questioned  if  it  could  hold 

Ever  the  sweet,  old  joy  again. 
The  color  had  faded  from  earth  and  sky, 

Mists  hung  low  where  the  light  had  lain, 
And  through  the  willows  a  fretful  sigh 

Moaned  as  their  branches  swept  the  pane. 

"  My  days  must  darken  as  these,"  I  said  — 

"  Out  of  my  life  must  summer  go  ; 
Its  russeted  memories,  dim  and  dead, 

Shiver  along  my  pathway  so  ; 
No  more  the  elastic  life  come  back  — 

The  leap  of  heart  and  the  spirit-glow 
That  never  had  sense  of  loss  or  lack, 

Whether  my  lot  were  glad  or  no." 


196  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE, 

But  here  on  my  musings  broke  a  child, 

Fresh  from  a  rush  in  the  pinching  air ; 
And,  kissing  my  hand,  she  gayly  smiled. 

Speaking  no  word,  but  leaving  there 
A  handful  of  heart's-ease,  blithe  and  bright. 

What  had  become  of  my  cloud  of  care  ? 
It  had  haloed  itself  in  a  ring  of  light 

Over  the  angel  unaware ! 


BALLAD  AND  OTHER    VERSE.  197 


NATURE'S  THRENODY. 

p.    H.    H. 
I. 

A  MURMUR,  sad  as  far-off  muffled  bells, 

Goes  faintly  soughing  through  the  shivering  pines  ; 
The  thrill  as  of  a  thousand  kissed  farewells 
Stirs  into  tremors  all  the  drooping  vines  ; 
The  trailing  muscadines 
Forget  to  take  their  autumn  splendor  on, 

And  wring  their  hands  with  gesture  of  despair 
Athwart  the  spicy  air, 
Because  the  voice  that  sang  to  them  is  gone. 

n. 

Along  the  hemlock  aisles  the  winds  complain 

Like  chanting  priests.     I  catch  the  measured  tread 

Of  weeping  Oreads,  following  twain  by  twain ; 
While  Dryads  bear  the  pale  and  silent  dead, 
Couched  on  a  fragrant  bed 

Of  pines,  marsh-mallows,  and  the  golden-rod ; 
And  reverently  beneath  the  cedar  shade, 


198  BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE. 

Where  they  his  grave  have  made, 
They  wrap  him  in  the  autumn's  russet  sod. 

ni. 
I  hear  the  whippoorwill  within  the  vale, 

In  tones  that  break  my  heart,  its  dirge  repeat ; 
The  mocking-bird  sobs  out  a  troubled  wail, 
Most  melancholy,  most  divinely  sweet, 
Because  the  lingering  feet 
That  paused  so  oft,  to  catch  the  mellow  strain 
It  practised  for  him,  till  the  daylight's  close  — 
Too  well  —  too  well  it  knows,  — 
Those  lingering  feet  will  never  come  again. 

IV. 

The  clouds  dissolve  themselves  in  pallid  mist. 

That  clings  like  cere-cloths.     In  the  southern  breeze 
All  gladness  dies,  by  solemn  memories  whist ; 
The  patter  of  the  rain  amid  the  trees 
Is  like  the  moan  of  seas 
After  the  wreck.     And  all  this  silence  shed 
O'er  nature,  like  a  diapason  pause, 
Has  come  to  pass,  because 
The  poet  who  has  led  the  choir  is  dead  ! 


BALLAD  AND   OTHER    VERSE.  199 


EVEN-SONG. 

1. 

There  'll  come  a  day  when  the  supremest  splendor 

Of  earth  or  sky  or  sea, 
Whate'er  then*  miracles,  sublime  or  tender, 

Will  wake  no  joy  in  me. 

2. 

There  '11  come  a  day  when  all  the  aspiration, 

Now  with  such  fervor  fraught, 
As  lifts  to  heights  of  breathless  exaltation. 

Will  seem  a  thing  of  naught. 

3. 

There  '11  come  a  day  when  riches,  honor,  glory, 

Music  and  song  and  art. 
Will  look  like  puppets  in  a  worn-out  story. 

Where  each  has  played  his  part. 


200  BALLAD  AND    OTHER    VERSE. 

4. 
There  '11  come  a  day  when  human  love,  the  sweetest 

Gift  that  includes  the  whole 
Of  God's  grand  giving  —  sovereignest,  completest  — 

Shall  fail  to  fill  my  soul. 

6. 
There  '11  come  a  day  —  I  will  not  care  how  passes 

The  cloud  across  my  sight, 
If  only,  lark-like,  from  earth's  nested  grasses, 

I  spring  to  meet  its  light. 


SONNETS. 


THE   POET'S  ANSWER. 

"Whence  did  it  come?" — No  conscious  thought  of  mine 

Chose  out  the  theme,  as  from  Carrara's  stone 

The  sculptor  chooses  the  one  block  alone 
Best  fitted  to  embody  his  divine 
Ideal  of  beauty.     But  before  one  line 

Forecasts  the  form  as  Fancy  sees  it  shown 

Perfect,  or  yet  a  mallet-chip  is  thrown 
Off  from  the  mass  that  hides  his  clear  design,  — 
Suppose  a  flash  of  quick,  electric  light 

Should  daze  the  sculptor's  eye,  and  he  should  see 
Step  from  the  stone,  evoked  as  by  a  spell, 

The  statue  of  his  dream,  Persephone  : 
So  sprang  my  poem  forth,  revealed  to  sight ; 

But  by  what  magic  wrought,  I  cannot  tell. 


202  SONNETS, 


WE  TWO. 

Ah,  painful-sweet !  how  can  I  take  it  in ! 

That  somewhere  in  the  illimitable  blue 

Of  God's  pure  space,  which  men  call  Heaven,  we  two 
Again  shall  find  each  other,  and  begin 
The  infinite  life  of  love,  a  life  akin 

To  angels,  —  only  angels  never  knew 

The  ecstasy  of  blessedness  that  drew 
Us  to  each  other,  even  in  this  world  of  sin. 

Yea,  find  each  other  !     The  remotest  star 

Of  all  the  galaxies  would  hold  in  vain 
Our  souls  apart,  that  have  been  heretofore, 

As  closely  interchangeable  as  are 
One  mind  and  spirit :     Oh,  joy  that  aches  to  pain, 

To  be  together  —  we  two  —  forever  more ! 


SONNETS.  203 


HESTIA. 

O  GENTLE  Goddess  of  the  Grecian  hearth, 

Whose  altar  was  the  cheerful  tahle  spread ; 
Whose  sacrifice,  the  pleasant  daily  bread. 

Offered  with  incense  of  sweet  childhood's  mirth, 

And  parent's  priestly  ministration,  worth 

More  than  all  other  rites  that  ever  shed 

Light  on  the  path  that  those  young  feet  must  tread  - 

Has  thy  pure  worship  ceased  from  off  the  earth  ? 

We  heap  new  fires  ;  we  overbrim  the  bowl. 
Yet  shiver,  hungry.    To  our  inmost  shrine. 

The  obtrusive  world  finds  way.     Abroad  we  roam, 
In  discontent  of  household  oil  and  wine  ; 

And  wherefore  so  ?     Because  the  kindling  coal 
We  bring  not  from  the  sacred  hearth  of  home ! 


204  SONNETS. 


ART'S   LIMITATIONS. 

This  rich,  rank  age  —  does  it  need  giants  now, 
Dantes,  and  Angelos,  and  Shakespeares  ?     Nay, 
Its  culture  is  of  other  sort  to-day, 

That  concentrates  no  power  —  that  doth  allow 

Growths  which  divide  the  strength  that  should  endow 
The  one  taU  trunk  —  that  fails  to  lop  away, 
With  wise  reserve,  the  shoots  which  lead  astray 

The  wasted  sap  to  some  collateral  hough. 

Had  Dante  chiselled  stone  —  had  Angelo 

Intrigued  at  courts  —  had  Shakespeare  cramped  his 
power 
With  critic-gauge  of  Drayton,  Chaucer,  Gower  — 

What  lack  there  were  of  that  refreshing  shade 
Which  these  high-towered,  centurial  oaks  have  made, 

Where  walk  the  happy  nations  to  and  fro  ! 


SONNETS.  206 


FLOOD-TIDE. 

TO   THE   POET   


To  every  artist,  howsoe'er  his  thought 
Unfolds  itself  before  the  eyes  of  men,  — 
Whether  through  sculptor's  chisel,  poet's  pen, 

Or  painter's  wondrous  brush,  —  there  comes,  f uU  fraught 

With  instant  revelation,  lightning-wrought, 
A  moment  of  supremest  heart-swell,  when 
The  mind  leaps  to  the  tidal  crest,  and  then 

Sweeps  on  triumphant  to  the  harbor  sought. 

Wait,  eager  spirit,  till  the  topping  waves 

Shall  roll  their  gathering  strength  in  one,  and  lift 

From  out  the  swamping  trough  thy  galleon  free ; 
Mount  with  the  whirl,  command  the  rush  that  raves 

A  maelstrom  round  ;  then  proudly  shoreward  drift. 
Rich-freighted  as  an  Indian  argosy  ! 


206  SONNETS. 


ABNEGATION.    . 

**  The  mother  of  Jesus  saith  unto  Him :  They  have  no  wine." 

St.  John. 

How  countless  are  the  souls  for  whom  the  days 

Are  empty  of  all  stimulating  glow 

That  sends  the  bounding  blood  with  quickened  flow 
Along  the  tingling  veins,  —  who  never  raise 
Their  heavy  eyes  beyond  the  flinty  ways 

Their  daily  feet  must  tread,  —  who  never  know 

This  world  is  good,  because  of  cares  that  so 
Thorn  every  step  of  life's  laborious  maze  ! 

The  plodding  peasants,  they  must  plant  and  rear, 
And  weed  and  water,  that  the  teeming  soil 

May  yield  its  richness  to  the  clustered  vine,  — 
Must  tramp  the  grapes  until  their  juice  run  clear 

For  lordly  lips ;  —  and  yet,  for  all  their  toil, 
Taste  not  the  flagon  filled :   Thei/  have  no  ivine  ! 


SONNETS.  207 


OVER-CONTENT. 

I  WOULD  not  be  too  happy  in  the  joys 

That  so  fulfil  my  life  :  I  would  not  rest 

Too  satisfied,  if  gifts  the  very  best 
God  grants,  were  mine  :  —  the  bliss  that  never  cloys, 
Born  of  Love's  perfectness  ;  the  equipoise 

Exact  of  flesh  and  spirit,  that  keeps  youth's  zest 

Still  at  its  acme  :  —  genius  whose  behest 
Art  waits  upon  ;  all  nature  to  rejoice 
My  sated  soul :  —  Lest,  haply,  when  I  hear 

My  Father  call,  child-wise  I  say,  —  Let  be ; 
So  many  gracious  things  Thou  givest  me,  — 

Such  store  of  present  good  from  far  and  near, 
Such  full  contentment  with  my  sunny  cheer, 

Why  should  I  come  ?     What  need  have  I  for  Thee  ? 


208  SONNETS. 


IN  THE  PANTHEON. 

January  17,  1878. 

In  all  the  score  of  centuries  that  have  fled 
Since  the  victorious  Roman  reared  on  high 
This  dome,  ceiled  with  the  overarching  sky, 

None  of  the  mighty  ones,  august  and  dread. 

Whose  deeds  have  won  for  them  an  honored  bed 
Here,  in  these  statued,  seven-fold  niches  high, 
Have  nobler  claim  than  he  hath  thus  to  lie, 

Whom  Italy  to-day  bears  hither,  dead. 

As  through  yon  dome's  blue  circlet,  oft  of  yore,^ 

They  showered  white  leaves,  when  votive  prayers  were 
done. 

So  let  white  benediction-memories  fall 

Around  this  king ;  —  his  service  being  o'er  ;  — 

Who  found  his  sundered  realm  wild  Faction's  thrall, 
And  left  it  free,  compacted,  peaceful,  one  ! 

1  "  Formerly,  when  the  Popes  officiated  here  on  the  day  of  Pen- 
tecost, white  rose-leaves  were  scattered  through  the  aperture  in  the 
dome/* 


SONNETS.  209 


MENDELSSOHN'S  REWARD. 

Tranced  with  his  matchless  skill,  the  royal  pair 
Sat  hearkening,  while  the  great  composer's  hand 
Urged  on  at  will  (as  if  superb  command 

0£  the  wide  waves  of  sound  were  his  to  share), 

Careering  harmonies,  that  brake  in  rare 
Crowned  culminations,  as  upon  the  strand 
The  over-poise  of  surge  breaks,  leaving  grand 

Subsiding  murmurs  on  the  vibrant  air. 

Then  spake  the  Queen  :  "  An  hour  of  pure  delight 
Has  been  your  gift  to  us  ;  beseech  you,  say, 

What  now  can  we  bestow,  our  thanks  to  tell  ? 
The  kind  musician's  eye  grew  softly  bright : 
"  I  am  a  father  ;  it  would  please  me  well 
To  see  the  royal  children  at  their  play." 


210  SONNETS. 


"PHILIP,  MY   KING." 

TO   PHILIP  BOURKE   MARSTON. 

Thou  art  the  same,  my  friend,  about  whose  brow, 
In  cradle  years,  a  poet  twined  the  lays 
Through  which  she  glorified,  in  poet's  phrase, 

Those  splendid  eyes,  that  forced  her  to  avow 

Heart-fealty  to  thee,  her  liege,  and  bow 
Before  thy  regal  looks,  with  regal  praise 
Of  more  enduring  freshness  than  the  bays 

Which  blatant  crowds  bind  for  their  heroes  now. 

Had  she  prevision  that  above  those  eyes 
God  meant  to  press  His  hand,  the  better  so 

To  cage  the  lark-like  spirit  ?     Should  it  soar 
Too  deep  into  the  sapphire  of  the  skies, 

We  earthly  listeners,  standing  far  below. 
Must  fail  to  catch  the  ethereal  music  more. 


SONNETS.  211 


MOODS. 


MORNING. 


It  is  enough  :  I  feel  this  golden  morn, 
As  if  a  royal  appanage  were  mine, 
Through  Nature's  queenly  warrant  of  divine 

Investiture.     What  princess,  palace-born, 

Hath  right  of  rapture  more,  when  skies  adorn 

Themselves  so  grandly  ?  —  when  the  mountains  shine 
Transfigured  ?  —  the  air  exalts  the  wine  ?  — 

When  pearly  purples  steep  the  yellowing  corn  ? 

So  satisfied  with  all  the  goodliness 

Of  God's  good  world,  —  my  being  to  its  brim 

Surcharged  with  utter  thankfulness,  no  less 
Than  bliss  of  beauty,  passionately  glad. 

Through  rush  of  tears  that  leaves  the  landscape  dim, 
_J'  Who  dares,"  —  I  cry  —  "  in  such  a  world  be  sad  ?  " 


212  SONNETS. 


II. 
NIGHT. 

I  PRESS  my  cheek  against  the  window-pane, 
And  gaze  abroad  into  the  blank,  black  space 
Where  earth  and  sky  no  more  have  any  place. 

Wiped  from  existence  by  the  expunging  rain : 

And  as  I  hear  the  worried  winds  complain, 
A  darkness  darker  than  the  murk  whose  trace 
Invades  the  curtained  room,  is  on  my  face, 

Beneath  which  life  and  life's  best  ends  seem  vain. 

My  proudest  aspirations  viewless  sink 

As  yon  cloud-blotted  hills  :  hopes  that  shone  bright 
Last  eve,  as  planets,  like  the  stars  to-night. 

Are  hidden,  eclipsed,  as  never  heretofore  : 
"  0  weary  world,"  —  I  cry  —  "  how  dare  I  think 

Thou  hast  for  me  one  gleam  of  gladness  more  ?  " 


SONNETS.  213 


HUJVIAN  PROVIDENCE. 

I  WOULD  not,  if  I  could,  arrange  the  how, 
The  what,  the  wherefore  of  to-morrow's  plan : 
Omniscience  whose  supremest  eye  doth  scan 

All  time,  all  being  as  one  eternal  Now, 

Devoid  of  the  stern  sequences  that  bow 
Our  wills,  and  bar  their  action,  only  can 
Previse  for  each  of  us  the  bounded  span 

To  walk  or  work  in,  as  He  shall  allow. 

Or  if  we  dare,  like  Israel  of  old. 

In  unbelief,  to  seize  the  manna  spread 

In  white  abundance  round  our  tents  to-day, 
Because  we  doubt  of  our  to-morrow's  bread, — 

Not  even  an  Aaron's  priestly  pot  of  gold 

Shall  keep  the  o'er-gathered  portion  from  decay  ! 


214  SONNETS. 


HORIZONS. 

A  PUPIL  of  the  gi^and  old  Florentine 

Paused  at  his  work,  one  day,  in  hopeless  guise  — 

Head  bowed  despondent,  over-wearied  eyes, 
And  fingers,  whose  long  labor  at  the  line 
So  cramped  their  force  that  now  they  dropt  supine  : 

The  master  saw  the  failure  ;  yet  too  wise 

To  chide,  in  letters  of  the  largest  size 
Scored    "  Amplius  !  —  Amjplius  I "    o'er   the   pinched 
design. 

So,  when  we  toil  within  our  narrow  groove 
Till  energies  succumb,  and  timorous  Doubt 

Achieves  no  conquest,  as  the  days  go  on,  — 
Let  but  some  master-thought  the  spell  disprove, 

By  widening  our  horizons,  broadening  out 

Our  warping  views  —  and  lo  !  despair  is  gone ! 


SONNETS.  216 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  LEAF. 

Behold  this  blade  of  grass  —  its  lightest  sway- 
Owns  Nature's  touch  —  the  worldling's  name  for  God : 
It  does  not  hold  itself  erect,  nor  nod 

Before  the  breeze,  nor  turn  to  meet  the  day, 

Nor  catch  the  dew-drop  dripping  from  the  spray 
Of  yonder  overarching  golden-rod, 
Nor  droop  a  wilted  stem  upon  the  sod, 

Save  with  one  instinct  only  —  to  obey. 

But  man,  supreme  of  God's  creation,  dares 

Deny  His  Being's  law,  and  overpass 
All  his  clear  intuitions.     Not  to  him 

Belongs  such  meed  of  merit  as  compares 
Even  with  the  inarticulate  praise,  —  the  dim 

Dumb  nature-worship  of  the  blade  of  grass ! 


216  SONNETS, 


WHEREFORE  ? 

Had  the  blind  bard  of  Chios,  in  the  stress 

Of  wandering,  asked  this  question,  —  where  would  be 
Those  marvellous  stories,  his  rich  legacy 

To  all  the  ages  since  ?     Had  the  access 

Of  Michael's  scorn  been  potent  to  repress 
The  grand  creations,  which  he,  verily. 
Cared  not  that  men  should  praise,  what  majesty 

Out  of  Art's  realm  were  lost !     Had  soft  idlesse 

To  Raphael  whispered  —  "  Fling  thy  brush  away 
And  take  thine  ease,"- —  what  types  of  beauty  were 

Snatched  from  our  vision  !     If  Cervantes'  fare 
Had  starved  his  soul,  and  braved  it  to  resist 

Each  mirthful  quip,  to  dire  despair  a  prey  — 

What  echoing  laughter  would  the  world  have  missed  ! 


SONNETS,  217 


MEDALLION   HEADS. 

I. 

SASKIA.i 

The  lovely  Friesland  maiden  whom  the  pride 

Inherent  in  her  old  patrician  race 

Forbade  not  to  renounce  her  birthright's  place, 
And  seek  her  marriage  bliss  at  Rembrandt's  side, 
Had  recompense,  to  Friesland's  best  denied  : 

For,  never  wearying  of  the  auroral  grace 

Of  Northern  lights  that  flashed  about  her  face, 
He  for  all  time  her  beauty  glorified. 

Her  soul  lies  mute  on  each  Madonna's  mouth ; 

Her  blonde  hair  floats  across  Bathsheba's  breasts  ; 
Her  mingled  snow-and-roses  kindle  up 

Susannah's  cheeks  ;  as  Hagar  in  her  drouth, 
She  droops  ;  and  'mid  Ahasuerus'  guests 

She  sits.  Queen  Esther  with  the  jewelled  cup. 
^  Wife  of  Rembrandt. 


218  SONNETS. 


II. 
VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

Serene  and  sad  and  still,  she  sat  apart 
In  widowed  saintliness,  an  unvowed  nun, 
Whose  duty  to  the  world  without  was  done ; 

And  yet  concealing  with  unselfish  art 

The  scars  of  grief,  the  pangs  of  loss,  the  smart 
Of  pain,  she  suffered  not  herself  to  shun 
The  hurt,  and  bruised,  and  wronged,  who  one  by  one 

Sought  sanctuary  of  her  cloistered  heart. 

But  to  that  loneliest  soul,  who  found  in  her 

His  type  of  womanhood,  supremest  set, 
And  knew  not  whether  he  should  kneel  or  no,  — 

Such  sweet,  strange  comfort  did  she  minister, 
That,  were  this  deed  her  all,  the  world  would  yet 

Have  loved  her  for  the  sake  of  Angelo  ! 


SONNETS.  219 


in. 

LA  FORNARINA. 

Who  can  believe  that  he  was  thralled  by  this  ? 
This  creature  wrought  of  flesh  not  over  fine, 
With  brazen  brow,  and  mouth  whose  sensual  line 

Holds  no  red  sting  of  rapture  in  its  kiss  ?  — 

This  splendid  animal,  for  whom  life  is 

Mere  pleased  existence,  pagan,  undivine,  — 
Without  a  glimpse  of  soul,  without  a  sign 

That  she  could  fathom  the  soundless  depths  of  his  ? 

We  see  the  legend  on  her  armlet  traced, 
*^  Raphael  Urhinas  :  "  yet  deny  that  one 

So  born  for  love,  so  gracious,  calm,  and  sweet, 
So  like  a  glad  Greek  god,  with  beauty  graced, 

Could  yield  to  toils  such  as  Calypso  spun,  — 
Could  stoop  at  such  an  earthly  woman's  feet ! 


220  SONNETS. 


TV. 
LUCREZIA.1 

The  pretty  fooFs  face,  with  its  white  and  red, 
Its  perfect  oval,  its  bewitching  pout ; 
The  nimbus-shine  of  shimmering  hair  about 

The  Dian  curve  of  brow  ;  the  well-poised  head  ; 

The  rare-ripe,  melting  form ;  the  princess'  tread,  — 
All  lured  his  artist  nature  to  devout 
Love  for  a  siren,  who  that  Art  could  scout. 

And  barter  for  the  gold  it  brought  instead. 

Senza  errori  :  —  Florence  so  did  call 

The  ma^er  Michael  loved,  and  Raphael  praised  : 
But  when  Lucrezia  breathed  her  blighting  breath 

Across  his  faultless  canvas,  thenceforth  all 
His  genius  seemed  to  shrivel ;  till  hopeless,  crazed, 

His  life's  mistake  found  sole  redress  in  death. 
1  Wife  of  Andrea  del  Sarto. 


SONNETS.  221 


V. 

FRAU  AGNES. 

From  page  to  page  they  still  repeat  the  wrong,  — 
How  Agnes,  with  her  shrewish  marriage-ways, 
Saddened  the  gentle  Nuremberger's  days, 

Until  the  silken  tie  became  a  thong 

Wherewith  she  pinioned  him  in  bondage  strong: 
Yet  who  can  lay  his  finger  on  a  phrase 
That  proves  it  so  ?  or  cite  a  word's  dispraise 

Of  her,  his  true  '  housereckoner '  ^  all  life  long  ? 

One  spiteful  line  has  furnished  forth  the  stuff 
Whose  hempen  coil  has  strangled  the  fair  name 

Thus  filched  from  Albrecht's  wife,  the  centuries  through  ; 
For  if  the  love  she  gave  was  not  enough. 

Or  if  his  bosom  nursed  some  fonder  flame 
That  perished,  surely  Agnes  never  knew. 

^  Durer's  playful  designation  of  his  wife  in  his  letters. 


222  SONNETS. 


VI. 

QUINTIN  MATSYS'   BRIDE. 

An  artist's  daughter,  she,  —  a  toiler,  he, 

At  the  grim  forge  :  all  Antwerp  well  might  stare 
Upon  him  as  a  madman,  that  he  dare 

Aspire  to  hope,  in  face  of  the  decree 

Passed  by  parental  pride,  —  that  none  should  be 
Received  as  suitor  who  should  fail  to  bear 
In  hand  —  his  own  true  work  —  a  picture  rare 

Enough  to  prove  his  worth  of  such  as  she. 

Yet  nothing  is  impossible  to  Love  : 

Soon  through  the  city  rang  the  cry  abroad,  — 

"  Behold  the  miracle  of  Matsys'  Saint !  " 
Blind  Genius  felt  Art's  touch,  as  of  a  god ; 

Had  faith  and  saw  !  —  And  graven  still  above 

His  head,  we  read :  ''Love  taught  the  smith  to  paint  J^  ^ 

"  Connuhialis  amor  de  Mulcihre  fecit  Apellem.''^  — Inscription  on 
the  Cathedral  wall  at  Antwerp. 


CHILDHOOD   OF    THE   OLD  MASTERS. 


TO  MY  LITTLE  ART-LOVERS, 

MARGARET  AND  JANET. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE  OLD  MASTERS. 


LEONARDO'S  ANGEL.^ 

PIETRO   DA   VINCI.^ 

You  see  this  boy,  —  a  spoiled  and  restless  lad 
Who  needs  must  fret  his  father,  —  (eh,  my  boy  ?) 
With  projects  changeful  as  the  hours,  nor  yet 
In  any  find  content  ?     From  chosen  sports 
Among  the  Alban  hills,  with  horses,  hounds, 
And  contadini,  —  here  he  flurries  back 
To  Florence,  and  once  more  is  at  his  tricks 
.  Of  carving,  daubing  panels,  and  the  like,  — 
Your  most  refractory  pupil,  as  I  deem. 
And  nothing  now  will  serve  but  that  he  watch 

^  Art-visitors  to  Florence  will  recall  the  Angel  —  painted  by  Leo- 
nardo when  a  pupil  of  Verocchio  —  which,  in  a  corner  of  one  of 
this  master's  frescoes,  seenas  to  light  up  the  whole  dark  picture. 

2  Father  of  Leonardo. 


224     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

You  at  distemper-work,  which  he  will  j&nd 
Needs  just  a  hint  from  him  to  perfect  it : 
For  the  young  arrogant  has  never  owned 
Distrust  of  self  since  he  was  tall  enough 
To  draw  my  poniard  forth,  and  scare  his  nurse 
With  passes  — 

LEONARDO. 

Nay,  but  father,  grant  me  now 
Tlie  skill  for  what  I  can  do  ;  —  curb  the  colt 
That 's  wildest  in  your  stalls ;  —  lead  on  the  hounds, 
And  fly  the  hawks  :  or  from  an  ilex-knot. 
Carve  out  a  shrine,  my  sister  praises  more 
Than  Donatello's  cuttings ;  or  frame  flutes 
You  own  make  music  to  your  mind :  or  paint 
A  saint's  face  for  some  teasing  servant-maid 
To  say  her  prayers  to  ;  or  — 

VEROCCHIO. 

0  modest  youth ! 
Will  panels  not  content  you,  that  you  even 
Must  brave  your  master  in  his  chosen  line  ? 
I  dare  be  sworn  you  think  his  practised  hand 
Would  yield  to  yours,  upon  a  frescoed  wall ! 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.    225 

LEONARDO. 

Just  since  I  *ve  watched  your  way,  my  fingers  itch 
To  snatch  a  brush,  and  try  — 

PIETRO. 

That  shall  he  not ! 
Forthwith  he  '11  want  to  drag  our  hangings  down, 
And  splash  us  round  with  hunting-scenes,  and  make 
Our  dining-hall  tumultuous. 

LEONARDO. 

Father,  pray  — 
If  but  my  master  trust  me  with  his  tools  — 
Just  once  !  —  the  cunning  little  angel  there, 
Half-outlined  in  the  corner :  let  me  flood 
Him  into  rosiness  ;  I  can  —  I  can  / 

PIETRO. 

You  always  want  your  way  :  Verocchio,  chide 
Your  pupil's  insolence. 

VEROCCHIO. 

I  '11  blot  his  work 
Easy  enough,  my  lord  ;  so  let  him  daub  : 


226     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

'T  will  do  him  good  to  fail. 

(Leonardo  seizes  a  brush,  and  paints  vehemently.) 

PIETRO. 

Why,  boy  !  eh,  boy  ! 
I  did  not  dream  you  could  :  Verocchio,  see  : 
That  angel  has  this  moment  dropped  from  heaven ! 

VEROCCHIO. 

San  Luca !  why,  I  never  dreamed  of  this ! 
I  let  no  pupil  watch  me  while  I  work 
In  mortar  :  yet  the  boy  hath  caught  the  art 
Unlessoned :  what  a  touch  is  his  !  and  look,  — 
His  strayling  clouds  my  angels  out  of  sight ! 

PIETRO. 

So  !  so !  he  mars  your  picture  thus  —  confess  ! 
But  here  's  a  purse.     How  shall  I  make  amends  ? 

VEROCCHIO. 

You  never  can  :     Why,  that  one  vision  there. 
Cheapens  my  work  below  my  own  contempt, 
And  turns  my  saints  to  purgatorial  souls 
Whom  I  begin  to  hate. 


CHILDHOOD  OF  THE  OLD  MASTERS.    227 

PIETRO. 

Nay,  nay  !  wipe  out 
The  interloper  then :  he  shall  not  stay 
To  vex  you :  't  is  a  varlet's  trick  to  chafe 
Your  patience  so. 

VEROCCHIQ. 

But  he  shall  stay,  to  prove 
That  fifty  years  of  skill  must  yield  before 
The  genius  that  can  pluck,  at  one  first  grasp, 
The  heart  of  all  my  hard-won  secrets  out. 
Throw  by  your  narrow  panels,  boy,  and  match 
With  frescoes'  breadth,  your  strength  — 

LEONARDO. 

Ha !  say  you  so  ? 
—  The  very  hungriest  of  my  desires  I 
My  angel,  see,  entreats.     1  '11  make  the  walls 
Of  our  grim  chapel  in  the  Apennines 
Alive  with  flowery  wreaths  of  seraphs,  till 
My  father  even  will  fancy  that  he  walks 
In  Paradise,  with  Dante,  whom  he  loves. 


228     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 
VEROCCHIO. 

And  I,  from  this  day  forward,  I  fling  down 
My  brush  forever !     Fifty  years  of  pains 
Quenched  by  the  maiden  effort  of  fifteen ! 
Let  genius  have  its  way  ;  —  I  paint  no  more. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.    229 


GIOTTO'S  FIRST  PICTURE. 

A.  D.  1286. 

Through  the  Tuscan  meadows  dewy- 
Walked  the  painter,  Cimabue ; 
Full  of  fancies  sweet  and  holy, 
On  and  on  he  rambled  slowly, 
Till  he  saw  the  pastures  spotted 
White  with  flocks,  like  daisies  dotted 
O'er  the  grass  ;  and  close  behind  them, 
One  small  shepherd-lad  to  mind  them. 
Still  as  any  stock  of  mullein, 
There  he  sat ;  not  sad  nor  sullen, 
Though  without  a  comrade  near  him, 
And  with  only  sheep  to  cheer  him. 

Round  about,  the  flock  came  trooping, 
Yet  the  boy  sat  quiet  —  stooping 
O'er  a  broad,  flat  stone  before  him, 
With  the  sunshine  flooded  o'er  him. 
Stepping  through  the  verdure  dewy, 
O'er  his  shoulder  Cimabue 


230     CHILDHOOD    OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

Leaned  and  watched  with  silent  wonder, 
For  he  saw  clear  outlined,  under 
Fingers  coal-begrimed  and  blackened,  — 
Nor  for  him  their  labor  slackened. 
As  he  stood  there,  —  portrait-traces 
Of  his  flock's  unconscious  faces. 
Drawn  as  never  yet  he  saw  them, 
Drawn  as  never  he  could  draw  them. 

"  Little  shepherd,  who  did  teach  you 
Drawing  ?  tell  me,  I  beseech  you  ! 
(And  the  questioner's  eye  was  dewy) 
He  who  asks  is  Cimabue." 

Up  the  boy  sprang,  startled,  blushes 
Crimsoning  his  face  with  flushes  ; 
"  —  Not  the  painter !     Ah,  if  only 
I  could  meet  him  wandering  lonely 
Through  these  pastures,  I  would  ask  him 
Whether  I  might  dare  to  task  him, 
Just  to  show,  with  lightest  traces 
How  he  draws  his  angel-faces  !  " 

"  Yes,  the  painter !     I  will  take  you 
Home  with  me,  my  boy,  and  make  you 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     231 

Such  a  maestro  as  I  never 
Could  be,  if  I  drew  forever !  '* 

So  to  Florence  in  its  beauty 
Giotto  came ;  and  true  to  duty, 
Wrought  and  studied,  fast  and  faster, 
Till  he  grew  the  greatest  master 
Of  a  time  when  arts  were  scanty  : 
He  it  was  who  painted  Dante  ; 
And  the  martyrs,  saints,  and  sages 
Of  those  picture-loving  ages. 
But  his  genius  came  to  flower 
When  he  reared  the  marvellous  Tower, 
Graceful  as  a  Tuscan  lily. 
Which  they  called  the  Campanile. 

Little  tourist,  if  you  ever 

Visit  Florence,  you  will  never  — 

Be  your  art-love  stronger,  fainter  — 

Quite  forget  the  shepherd-painter. 

You  will  think  upon  his  story  ; 

You  will  go  to  Del  Fiore, 

And  the  guide  will  show  the  grotto 

There,  in  which  they  buried  Giotto. 


232     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS, 


FRA  ANGELICO'S   BOYHOOD. 

A.  D.  1412. 

Come  Marco,  and  see  the  grotto  where 
Our  little  maestro  goes  for  prayer, 
And  paints  with  a  sort  of  rapture  there. 

Not  know  him  ?  —  Why  he  is  the  childlike  saint. 
With  whom  the  village  is  all  acquaint, 
Who  never  does  aught  but  pray  and  paint. 

And  he  is  the  boy  who  walked  away 
Across  the  valley,  one  bright  spring  day, 
To  find  Masaccio  —  as  they  say  : 

That  so  he  might  learn  of  the  Master,  how 
Rightly  to  circle  Our  Lady's  brow 
With  a  halo  she  wears  in  glory  now. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     233 

And  oh  !  but  he  draws  her  wondrous  fair, 
Such  splendor  behind  her  golden  hair  — 
And  garments  as  blue  as  the  summer  air ! 

And  the  best  of  it  is  —  he  makes  you  feel, 
Unless  you  Ve  a  heart  as  hard  as  steel. 
There  's  nothing  for  you  to  do  but  kneel ! 

They  say  that  before  his  lip  could  frame 

A  syllable's  sound,  one  day  there  came 

From  his  baby  mouth  —  Our  Lord's  dear  name. 

And  all  of  his  early  childish  plays 

Had  something  to  do  with  churchly  ways  — 

And  his  songs,  if  he  sang,  were  songs  of  praise. 

When  the  scarlet  poppies  were  all  a-blow, 
Away  to  the  wheat-fields  he  would  go. 
And  gather  the  finest  ones  that  grow,  — 

Purple  and  yellow,  blue  and  white. 
And  hasten  home  with  a  strange  delight, 
And  out  of  them  make  a  wondrous  sight. 


234     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS, 

Such  cardinals  in  their  crimson  dress  ! 
Such  bishops  with  fingers  raised  to  bless  ! 
Such  nuns  in  their  snowy  loveliness  ! 

And  then  to  his  grotto  would  he  call 
His  chosen  companions,  one  and  aU, 
And  there  on  his  knees  devoutly  fall. 

No  wonder  they  call  him  The  Little  Saint, 
For  now  that  he 's  old  enough  to  paint, 
They  tell  me  he  weeps  without  restraint, 

Low-bowed  in  the  dust  —  and  asks  for  grace 
Before  he  will  let  his  pencil  trace 
A  single  line  of  Our  Lady's  face  ! 

One  day  he  will  be  a  monk,  I  trow. 
Already  his  comrades  deeming  so. 
Have  christened  him  Fra  Angelico. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     235 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

A.  D.  1486. 

I. 

"  Nay,  father,  't  is  weary  day  by  day, 
In  stones  and  in  metals  to  work  away 
At  the  goldsmith's  tiresome  trade  *'  — 

'<  Ah,  so  ? 
A  *  tiresome  trade !  *     I  'd  have  thee  know 
That  silver  and  gold  are  precious  things, 
And  the  gems  we  cut  are  gems  for  kings 
To  wear  in  their  crowns  "  — 

"  But,  father,  hear ! 
Thou  ever  hast  been  so  kind  and  dear, 
That  now  I  am  bold  to  ask  what  yet 
I  never  ventured  —  that  thou  wouldst  let 
Me  follow  my  bent ;  for  I  would  paint 
Pictures  of  many  and  many  a  saint 
For  the  shrines  where  people  kneel ;  and  when 


236     CHILDHOOD   OF   THE    OLD   MASTERS. 

I  come  to  be  famous,  father,  then 
Thy  heart  will  flutter  with  inward  joy, 
To  think  that  the  painter  is  thy  boy." 

"  The  whim  of  a  lad  !     What  proof  have  I 
Of  the  bent  thou  boastest?  " 

"  Let  me  try 
The  strength  there  is  in  me.     Let  me  take 
A  panel  just  like  Van  Eyck's,  and  make 
No  holy  Madonna  thereon,  nor  Christ, 
Nor  such  as  the  masters  have  sufficed, 
But  only  myself  :  for  I  will  place 
Yon  Flemish  mirror  before  my  face, 
And  copy  the  form  I  find  therein ; 
And  then,  if  the  portrait  fails  to  win 
The  recognition  of  those  who  go 
To  school  with  me  every  day  —  why,  so 
1 11  bend  to  thy  will,  and  own  I  'rn  made 
To  follow  my  father's  goldsmith  trade. 
Do  the  terms  content  thee  ?  '* 

"  Yea,  if  thou, 
Unaided,  dost  paint  a  portrait  now. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     237 

Which  all  at  St.  Sebald's  school  agree 
Can  only  be  thine  —  well,  then  we  '11  see 
Which  craftman's  tools  are  the  tools  for  thee." 

II. 
"  My  picture  is  finished,  father.     Call 
The  boys  of  St.  Sebald,  one  and  all, 
Straight  into  the  shop.     On  a  panel  there, 
Near  the  head  Van  Eyck  has  painted,  where 
They  well  can  see  it,  my  work  is  hung, 
With  an  antique  bit  of  arras  flung 
Round  it,  whereby,  in  sooth,  I  meant 
To  make  them  believe  it  came  from  Ghent." 

"  Well,  well,  as  thou  wilt.     My  silver  dove 
Is  finished,  and  ready  to  perch  above 
St.  Barbara's  shrine.     (The  one,  I  wis, 
Let  loose  by  Noah  was  like  to  this. 
As  it  flew  from  the  ark  so  pure  and  white.) 
The  scholars  will  want  to  come  to-night,  — 
For  I  promised  them  all,  the  other  day 
They  should  see  it  before  it  was  sent  away  — 
And  then,  as  I  said,  if  they  declare 
That  thine  are  the  eyes,  the  mouth,  the  hair  — 


238     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

Just  thine  and  none  other's  —  why,  thou  mayst  use 
Thy  will,  and  have  leave  which  craft  to  choose. 
—  Ah,  here  are  the  boys  ! 

—  My  task  is  done, 
Sweet  lads  !     Is  the  dove  a  pretty  one  ?  " 

"  One  lovelier  never  cleaved  the  sky ! 
Aye,  marry,  it  seems  about  to  fly : 
Look,  Jan !  it  verily  winks  its  eye 
At  Albrecht  yonder,  who  hides,  I  ween, 
A  little  beyond  the  arras  screen  !  " 

"  No  Albrecht  is  there  :  he  left  the  door 
Just  only  a  moment  or  two  before 
Ye  entered  '*  — 

"  Who  then,  who  then,  is  he 
That  under  the  arras  stares  at  me  ? 
'T  is  Albrecht  Durer,  beyond  a  doubt ! 
Ho,  comrades,  I  think  we  can  drag  him  out ! 

"  Ah,  me  I     That  settles  the  pact  I  made : 
The  boy  will  give  up  an  honest  trade 
For  the  silly  brush ;  yet,  mayhap,  some  day 
The  world  shall  hear  of  him  —  who  can  say  !  " 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS,     239 


THE   MILAN   BIRD-CAGES. 

A.  D.  1485. 

I. 

Just  four  hundred  years  ago, 

(You  may  like  to  know)  — 
In  a  city  old  and  quaint, 
Lived  a  painter  who  could  paint 
Knight  or  lady,  child  or  saint, 

With  so  rich  a  glow, 
And  such  wondrous  skill  as  none 
In  the  Land  of  Art  had  done. 

n. 
Should  you  ever  chance  to  take 
(As  you  will)  a  foreign  tour, 
Milan  you  will  see,  I  'm  sure. 

For  the  Master's  sake. 
And  be  shown,  in  colors  dim, 
One  grand  picture  drawn  by  him  — 


240     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS, 

Christ's  Last  Sujpper,     If  your  eyes 
Fall,  while  gazing,  no  surprise 
Need  be  either  yours  or  mine. 
O'er  that  face  divine. 

ni. 
Then  in  Paris,  if  you  go 
To  the  great  Louvre  Gallery,  where 
Miles  of  paintings  make  you  stare 
Till  your  eyes  ache,  th«y  will  show 
As  they  point  the  finest  out, 
One  the  world  goes  mad  about  — 
Such  a  portrait,  all  the  while 
How  it  haunts  you  with  its  smile, 

Lovely  Mona  Lisa  !  she 
Can't  be  bought  for  gold,  you  see ; 
Not  if  kings  should  come  to  buy, 

—  Let  them  try  ! 

IV. 

Oft  the  Master  used  to  go 
(Old  Vasari  tells  us  so) 
To  the  market  where  they  sold 
Birds,  in  cages  gay  with  gold, 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS,    241 

Brightly  tipped  on  wing  and  crest, 
Trapped  just  as  they  left  the  nest. 
Thither  went  he  day  by  day, 
Buying  all  within  his  way, 
Making  the  young  peasants  glad, 
Since  they  sold  him  all  they  had ; 
And  no  matter  what  his  store, 
Counting  birds  and  cages  o'er, 
He  was  always  buying  more. 

V. 

"  Wherefore  buy  so  many  ?  *'     Well, 
That 's  just  what  I  'm  going  to  tell. 
Soon  as  he  had  bought  a  bird, 
O'er  his  upturned  head  was  heard 
Such  a  trill,  so  glad,  so  high, 
Dropped  from  out  the  sunny  sky 
Down  into  his  happy  heart ; 
Filling  it  as  naught  else  could  — 
Naught  save  his  beloved  Art  — • 
Full  of  joy,  as  there  he  stood 
Holding  wide  the  wicker  door. 
Watching  the  bright  captives  soar 
Deep  into  the  blue.     You  see 


242     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

Why  he  bought  so  many  :  He 
Did  it  just  to  set  them  free. 

VI. 

Love  I  Leonardo  so 
For  his  splendid  pictures  .  —  No  ! 
But  for  his  sweet  soul,  so  stirred 
By  a  little  prisoned  bird. 


CHILDHOOD    OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     243 


LITTLE  TITIAN'S  PALETTE. 

High  up  in  the  Vale  of  Cadore 
Encompassed  by  mountains  as  wild 

As  the  wildness  of  gloom  and  of  glory 
Could  make  them,  dwelt  Titian,  the  child. 

The  snow-covered  ridges  and  ranges, 

The  gorges  as  dusky  as  night, 
The  cloud-wracks,  the  shadows,  the  changes, 

All  filled  him  with  dreams  of  delight. 

The  flush  of  the  summer,  the  duller 
White  sheen  of  the  winter  abroad, 

Would  move  him  to  ecstasy  :  color. 
To  him,  was  a  vision  of  God. 

Enraptured  his  mother  would  hold  him 
With  legends  that  never  sufficed 

To  tire  him  out,  as  she  told  him 
Of  Mary,  the  Mother  of  Christ. 


244     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

"  How  blue  are  her  eyes  ?  "  he  would  ask  her; 
"  As  blue  as  the  harebells  I  know  ; 
And  her  cheek  ?  "  —  (it  was  so  he  would  task  her)  • 
"  Is  her  cheek  like  a  rose  under  snow  ?  " 

So  stirred  with  the  spell  of  the  stores 

One  day  as  he  wandered  alone 
Deep  into  the  Vale  of  Cadore, 

Where  blossoms  by  thousands  were  strown, 

He  suddenly  cried  :  "I  will  paint  her ! 

The  darling  Madonna  !  —  for,  see, 
These  anemone-buds  are  not  fainter 

Than  the  tint  of  her  temples  must  be  ! 

"  Who  ever  saw  violets  bluer  ? 

Their  stain  is  the  stain  of  the  skies ; 
So  what  could  be  sweeter  or  truer 
For  tingeing  the  blue  of  her  eyes  ? 

"  This  rose  —  why,  the  sunsets  have  fed  her 
Till  she  looks  like  a  rose  of  the  South ; 
I  never  saw  one  that  was  redder  ; 
Oh,  that,  I  will  keep  for  her  mouth ! 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.    245 

*'  Yon  blood-root,  as  brown  as  October, 
Is  just  what  I  want  for  her  hair  ; 
And  the  juice  of  this  gentian  shall  robe  her 
In  garments  an  angel  might  wear  !  " 

Thus  the  picture  was  painted.     Long  after, 

In  Venice,  the  Bride  of  the  Sea, 
When  he  sat  amid  feasting  and  laughter. 

With  guests  of  the  noblest  degree  — 

When  his  name,  and  his  fame,  and  his  glory, 
To  the  height  of  the  highest  arose  ; 

And  Titian,  the  child  of  Cadore, 

Was  Titian,  the  Master  —  who  knows 

If  ever  his  world-widened  powers 
Were  touched  with  so  tender  a  grace 

As  when,  from  his  palette  of  flowers. 
He  painted  that  marvellous  face  ! 


246     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE  OLD  MASTERS. 


MICHAEL'S  MALLET. 


Long,  long  ago  in  the  olden  day, 

On  a  slope  of  the  Tuscan  hills,  there  lay 

A  village  with  quarries  compassed  round, 

And  blocks  of  marble  that  strewed  the  ground. 

And  cumbered  the  streets  :  and  everywhere. 

With  hammer  and  chisel,  and  rule  and  square, 

And  cap  of  paper  ardust  and  white. 

The  masons  sat  chipping  from  morn  till  night. 

n. 

The  earliest  sound  that  the  boy  had  heard 
Was  neither  the  whistle  nor  pipe  of  bird. 
Nor  bleating  of  lambs,  nor  rush  of  breeze 
Through  the  tops  of  swaying  chestnut  trees, 
Nor  laughter  and  song,  nor  whoop  and  shout 
Of  the  school  at  the  convent  just  let  out  : 
Nor  tinkle  of  waters  plashing  sweet 
From  the  dolphin's  mouth  in  the  village  street. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     247 

in. 

But  first  in  the  morning,  sharp  and  clear, 

Came  ever  to  Michael's  drowsy  ear, 

As  he  waked  from  slumber,  the  mallet's  knock, 

Or  the  stroke  of  the  hammer  that  shaped  the  block. 

From  the  dawn  of  the  day  till  the  twilight  came, 

The  clink  of  the  tools  was  still  the  same. 

And  steadily  still  the  ceaseless  chip 

Kept  time  to  the  fountain's  dreamy  drip. 

IV. 

And  when  he  could  toddle  beyond  the  door 
Of  the  cottage,  in  search  of  a  plaything  more, 
Or  venture  abroad  —  a  little  lad, 
What  toys  do  you  think  were  the  first  he  had  ? 
Why,  splinters  of  marble  white  and  pure. 
And  a  mallet  to  break  them  with,  be  sure. 
And  a  chisel  to  shape  them,  should  he  choose, 
Just  such  as  he  saw  the  masons  use. 


So  Michael  the  baby  had  his  way, 

And  hammered  and  clipped,  and  would  n't  play 


248     CHILDHOOD  OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

With  the  simple  and  senseless  sort  of  toys 

That  pleased  the  rest  of  the  village  boys. 

They  laughed  at  the  little  churches  he 

With  toil  would  rear  at  his  nurse's  knee ; 

They  scouted  the  pictures  that  he  drew 

On  the  polished  slabs  with  a  coal  or  two  ; 

They  jeered  and  they  mocked  him  when  he  tried 

To  model,  from  rubbish  cast  aside, 

Rude  forms  —  and  screamed  "  Scultore  I "  when 

His  bits  of  marble  he  shaped  like  men. 

VI. 

But  who  of  them  dreamed  his  mallet's  sound 
Would  ever  be  heard  the  world  around  ? 
Or  his  mimic  churches  in  time  become 
The  mightiest  temple  in  Christendom  ? 
Or  the  pictures  he  painted  fill  the  dome 
Of  the  Sistine's  wonderful  walls  in  Rome  ? 
Or  the  shapings  rude  of  his  moulded  clay 
Be  statues  that  witch  the  world  to-day  ? 
Or  the  baby  that  chiselled  the  splinters  so 
Be  the  marvellous  Michael  Angelo  ! 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.    249 


GUIDO'S  COMPLAINT. 

Bologna,  1585. 

Ah  —  what  shall  I  do  ?     They  have  taken  away 
My  paper  and  pencils  and  brushes,  and  say 
I  must  keep  to  the  harpsichord  day  after  day. 

My  father  is  fretted  because  he  foresees 

I  have  not  the  musical  genius  to  please 

The  taste  of  these  lute-loving,  gay  Bolognese. 

My  mother  —  dear  heart !  there  is  pain  in  her  look, 
When  she  finds  me  withdrawn  in  some  tapestried  nook, 
Bent  over  my  drawing  instead  of  my  book. 

And  so,  as  it  daily  is  coming  to  pass. 

She  chides  me  with  idleness,  saying,  "  alas  ! 

They  tell  me  my  Guido  *s  the  dunce  of  his  class !  " 


250     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

And  Friar  Tomasso,  the  stupid  old  fool ! 

Because  on  my  grammar,  instead  of  the  rule 

I  had  pencilled  his  likeness,  has  whipped  me  in  school. 

The  boys  leaning  over,  with  shoutings  began  — 
"  Oh  ho !     Little  Guido  Rene  is  the  man 
To  step  after  Raphael,  if  any  one  can !  " 

I  drew  on  the  side  of  my  chamber,  in  faint 
And  delicate  outlines,  the  head  of  a  saint : 
My  mother  has  blotted  it  over  with  paint. 

With  coals  from  the  brazier  I  sketched  on  the  wall 

Great  Caesar  returning  triumphant  from  Gaul : 

The  maids  brought  their  whitewash,  and  covered  it  all. 

And  yesterday  after  the  set  of  the  sun, 

(I  had  practised  the  lute  and  my  lessons  were  done ;) 

I  went  to  the  garden,  and  choosing  me  one 

Of  the  plots  yet  unplanted,  I  levelled  it  fair, 

And  traced  with  my  finger  the  famed  Gracchan  pair 

Of  brothers  :  there 's  now  not  a  trace  of  them  there. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     251 

I£  only  Antonio  Caracci  could  see 

My  drawings,  and  know  how  I  'm  thwarted,  —  ah,  he 

Is  a  painter,  and  so  would  be  sorry  for  me  ! 

Oh  the  pictures  —  the  pictures  that  crowd  to  my  eye  ! 

If  they  never  will  let  me  have  brushes  to  try 

And  paint  them  —  Madonna  !     I  think  I  shall  die  ! 


252     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 


CLAUDE'S  JOURNEY. 

A.  D.  1602. 
JACQUES. 

Whither  go  you,  Master  Claude, 
With  your  alpenstock  in  hand, 
And  across  your  breast  a  band 
Like  a  pedlar,  —  and  a  pack 
Far  too  heavy  on  your  back 
For  a  boy  of  twelve  ?  —  I  say, 
None  but  guides  should  be  abroad 
Such  a  wild  and  wintry  day : 
What  is  taking  you  away  ? 

Is  not  Freiburg  just  the  place 
For  a  skilful  lad  like  you, 
Who  can  cut  and  carve  so  true, 
Copying  Nature's  nicest  grace  ? 
Has  that  meddling  old  lace-vender 
Come  to  tempt  you  to  surrender 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD   MASTERS.    263 

All  the  blessings  Jean  Gel^e 
Heaps  upon  you  day  by  day  ? 

Stay  and  carve  your  carvings  here 
In  our  Freiburg  :     You  are  dear 
To  us  all :     But  otherwhere 
Who  will  praise  your  work,  or  care 
If  you  thrive,  or  meet  disaster,  — 
If  you  are  a  drudge  or  master  ? 

Let  the  old  lace-vender  go  : 
He  has  told  you  tales  I  know, 
Of  that  far-off  Italy, 
Till,  mayhap,  you  're  crazed  to  see 
What  its  sights  of  beauty  be. 

CLAUDE. 

Nay,  good  Jacques,  —  1  'm  fain  to  go 
Where  I  '11  see  no  Alpine  snow  — 
Where  the  grim  Black  Forest's  glades 
Cannot  scare  me  with  their  shades  ; 
Caring  not  though  I  should  roam 
Bare-foot  over  mountains  wild. 
Like  a  very  gypsy's  child. 
So  that  I  but  get  to  Rome  — 


254     CHILDHOOD   OF   THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

Rome  where  Michael  lived  and  wrought  —  . 
Rome  where  Raphael  painted  —  where 
I  shall  hreathe  that  living  air, 
Out  of  which  these  masters  caught 
Something  —  ah,  I  know  not  what ! 

Stay  and  carve  in  Freihurg  ?  —  Why 
I  am  mad  to  paint  that  sky,  — 
Stretched  so  blue  above  the  pines 
Of  those  distant  Apennines  — 
Out  of  heaven,  and  fix  it  fast 
In  such  pictures  as  shall  last 
Through  the  ages. 

JACQUES. 

Drawn,  they  '11  say, 


By  some  straggler  —  one  Gel^e  ? 

CLAUDE. 

No  !  through  me  some  fame  shall  come, 
—  You  shall  see  it  —  to  that  home 

Where  with  brothers  at  my  side, 
All  my  childhood  was  a  joy  — 

Where  until  our  father  died, 
Never  breathed  a  happier  boy  ! 


CHILDHOOD    OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.    255 

Oh  !  I  'U  bring  their  out-of-doors 

Into  gloomy  Roman  halls  : 
Oh !  I  '11  glorify  their  walls 

With  a  sunshine  such  as  pours 
Through  that  Southern  atmosphere, 

Colors  never  dreamed  of  here  ! 

So  —  I  '11  reach  the  master's  place, 

Striving  for  the  noblest  fame : 
And  if  strangers,  seeing  grace 

In  my  pictures,  ask  my  name. 
What  bethink  you  I  will  say 
To  their  question  ?     Claude  GelSe  ? 
Claude,  the  Freiburg  Carver  ?     Nay ! 

On  my  cheek  the  flush  will  glow 

While  my  words  come  proud  and  slow. 
All  my  patriot  blood  will  swell 

As  my  childhood's  home  again, 
With  its  beautiful  Moselle 

Gleams  before  my  vision  plain. 
And  I  '11  answer  —  Claude  Lorraine  I  ^ 


^  After  Claude  became  a  great  painter,  he  abandoned  his  family 
name  of  Gel^e  and  is  known  in  Art  only  as  Claude  Lorraine. 


256      CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 


THE  BOY  VAN  DYCK. 

A.  D.  1608. 

In  the  grey  old  Flemish  city,    . 

Sat  a  comely,  fair-haired  dame, 
At  a  window's  deep  embrasure, 

Bending  o'er  her  broidery-frame. 
Round  her  played  her  merry  children, 

As  they  wound  about  their  heads 
Fillets,  pilfered  in  their  mischief, 

From  her  skeins  of  arras-threads. 

Oft  she  turned  her  glance  upon  them, 

Softly  smiling  at  their  play, 
All  the  while  her  busy  needle 

Pricking  in  and  out  its  way  ; 
From  the  open  casement  gazing. 

Where  the  landscape  lay  in  view. 
Striving  from  her  silken  treasures. 

To  portray  each  varied  hue. 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     257 

"  Nay,  I  cannot,"  sighed  she  sadly, 

As  the  threads  dropped  from  her  hold, 
**  Cannot  match  that  steely  sapphire, 
Or  that  line  of  burnished  gold. 
How  it  sparkles  as  it  stretches 

Straight  as  any  lance  across  ! 
Never  hint  of  such  a  lustre 

Lives  within  my  brightest  floss  ! 

^'  Ah  that  blaze  of  splendid  color ! 

I  could  kneel  with  folded  hands, 
As  I  watch  it  slowly  dying 

Off  the  emerald  pasture-lands. 
How  my  crimson  pales  to  ashen. 

In  this  flood  of  sunset  hue. 
Mocking  all  my  poor  endeavor. 

Foiling  all  my  skill  can  do  !  " 

As  they  heard  her  sigh,  the  children 
Pressed  around  their  mother's  knees  : 
"  Nay  "  —  they  clamored  —  "  where  in  Antwerp 
Are  there  broideries  such  as  these  ? 

Why,  the  famous  master,  Rubens, 
Craves  the  piece  we  think  so  rare,  — 


258     CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 

Asks  our  father's  leave  to  paint  it 
Flung  across  the  Emperor's  chair  !  " 

"  How  ye  talk !  " —  she  smiled.     "  Yet  often, 

As  I  draw  my  needle  through, 
Gloating  o'er  my  tints,  I  fancy 

I  might  be  a  painter  too  : 
I,  a  woman,  wife,  and  mother, 

What  have  I  to  do  with  Art  ? 
Are  not  ye  my  noblest  pictures  ? 

Portraits  painted  from  my  heart ! 

"  Yet,  1  think,  if  midst  my  seven, 

One  should  show  the  master's  bent,  — 
One  should  do  the  things  I  dream  of,  — 

All  my  soul  would  rest  content." 
Straight  the  four-year-old  Antonio 
Answered,  sobbing  half  aloud  : 
"  I  will  be  your  painter,  painting 

Pictures  that  shall  made  you  proud  !  " 

Quick  she  snatched  this  youngest  darling, 
Smoothing  down  his  golden  hair, 

Kissing  with  a  crazy  rapture. 

Mouth  and  cheek  and  forehead  fair  — 


CHILDHOOD   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.     259 

Saying  mid  her  sobbing  laughter, 

"  So !  my  baby !  you  would  like 
To  be  named  with  Flemish  Masters, 

Rembrandt,  Rubens,  and  —  Van  Dyck  /  "  ^ 

^  The  mother  of  Van  Dyck  was  celebrated  for  her  beautiful  tap- 
estry work.  From  her,  her  distinguished  son  inherited  that  taste 
for  lucid  color  which  has  given  him  the  name  of  "  The  Silvery  Van 
Dyck." 


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